The Black Princess: An SI Story
by Barn Barn Barn
Summary: "What shall you name her?" Jamie asked softly. Cersei gave no sign that she heard him. She remained as she had been, silently gazing down at the babe held to her breast. Cersei's fingers played over the wisps of dark hair that graced her firstborn's head, while a strange expression fixed his sweet sister's features. Uncertain, Jaime hesitantly offered, "Alysanne, perhaps?"
1. A Raven From King's Landing

Tywin delivered the news during dinner: the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, was dead.

Had been for the better part of a week actually, the raven only just beating us to Casterly Rock.

Only Myrcella and Tommen appeared genuinely saddened by the news, Mother was split between equal parts blatant shock and irritated outrage, while Joff was leaning right into a growing pout; the latter reactions probably having to do with the summons back to King's Landing that accompanied the news. We had only just arrived after a near month on the road after all. Lord Tywin (and it was definitely "Lord" Tywin, I learned early on not to play the "Grandpa" card with him) delivered the news with typical stoniness. The rest of the family and assorted guests reacted with varying expressions of surprise, polite interest, mild concern, etc.

I myself was completely put off my feed, as I found my guts filling up quite readily with dread, no need for dessert.

Apparently I hadn't made _quite_ enough butterflies get to flapping during my short stay in Westeros. Then again, I probably should have been a bit more proactive if I had wanted to ensure canon's derailment. My mere presence and efforts to secure a few shineys for myself and a little higher standard of living were either insufficient to avert Jon's death or, I speculated with growing anxiety, Jon's death simply could _not_ be averted.

This was a fantasy setting after all, magic was a _thing_ no matter what the maesters might tell you. Proof in point: SOMETHING less than mundane had apparently decided that Robert Baratheon would, just the once, actually knock up Cersei Lannister (on their wedding night in fact). Then, said SOMETHING also decided that I would be just the perfect fit for playing the role of this new and exciting original character and subsequently ripped me from my quiet, comfortable life. Not sure precisely when I was dropped into this world, but I am forever grateful that my prior life experiences didn't seem to kick in until sometime in early childhood, leaving my memories of infancy a pleasant blank.

Small mercies. But I digress.

Along with the dread for the future, there was some actual sadness at the passing of Grandpa Jon.

Not a ton, but it was there.

I believe he genuinely was quite fond of me, but tended to be more than a little dismissive, very "that's nice but the grown-ups are talking now" which, all things considered, was fair, but to me it was very...grating, yes that's a good word. He grated me. He ruffled my feathers. Rubbed me the wrong way. Rustled my jimmies as it were. Not his fault really but he did.

So, small sadness at his passing.

A more pressing concern on my mind was Father; Robert was not going to handle this well. As Tywin spoke I was certain that my old man would be, right at that moment, drunk off his tits and sadly banging a whore. A distressing mental image, in all ways. Point is, he's having a bad time and his family should be there for him.

And by his family I mean me.

Not to disparage the rest of the family, though yes of course Mother wouldn't exactly be a big help to him right now or, well, ever, but I can say with no exaggeration and a significant amount of pride that I am his favorite by a very healthy margin.

Let me be clear, my dad is as good at parenting as he is at being King, so, y'know, not.

But!

He is _great_ at being friends.

And we are the _best_ of pals.

I've tagged along on just about every hunt the man's gone on since I could handle a bow, cheered alongside him at more tourneys than I can recall, and will never turn down an opportunity to hear about the good ol' days, no matter how many times I've heard 'em already. He doesn't take me drinking and whoring, that'd be a bridge too far for all involved, but I like to think that I've helped curbed his excess.

He's certainly not as blubbery as he was in the show; he's more "dude's let himself go" and less "oh god your poor horse".

Doesn't hurt that the seed was most definitely strong when they made me. No one will ever mistake me for anything other than a Baratheon; black hair, blue eyes, tall and built like a brick shit-house, it was like Mother's genes were almost contemptuously rejected by Father's. And that "Ours is the Fury" motto is no joke, I _definitely_ did not have a temper anything like this the first time around. I am continually baffled by how hard it is not to... _flip out_ , for lack of a more refined term, anytime something pisses me off!

If I ever took to drinking I might actually be _worse_ than dear old dad.

Oddly enough it helps bonding with Father; the trick is to find someone to bellow at together rather than scream at each other. I've never won a screaming match with the old man but I'm a dab hand at aiming our combined wrath at acceptable targets. And I will swear 'til the day I die that the first time I ever struck something with a (toy) hammer in anger (Ser Boros), Father had tears in his eyes (I will further swear those tears were of pride, rather than laughter).

I continue to digress.

Point is that Jon Arryn was dead and I didn't know if it was due to canon still being on it's rails or if something else was afoot. Regardless, I was certain a trip up North was in my near future. With Jon's death still occurring despite my presence, I had no reason to believe that some pretty heinous shit _wasn't_ going to be coming rapidly down the pipe. White Walkers and dragons are going to be bad enough to deal with without the continent imploding over the next few years. While I can't do anything about the former, I should be in a position to, if not outright avert civil war, at least mitigate the damages.

I muddled through the rest of dinner lost in my thoughts, remembering what I could of the canon timeline and trying to nail down where I could act and what the resulting ripples would look like. I begged off early, pleading the need for rest since we had to start back to King's Landing tomorrow, and left the table amidst Joff's grumbling at the reminder.

I distractedly followed a blond servant to the quarters that had been prepared for me, still mulling over the future.

I really hoped that Uncle Stannis doesn't skedaddle off to Dragonstone as per canon, as that would pretty much confirm that he and Grandpa Jon had twigged to the whole incest thing. I would have thought that me _clearly_ being my Father's child and obviously having come out of Mother would have been enough to deter any investigation into the parentage of Joff and the others, but now that's looking like little more than wishful thinking.

The servant briefly looked back at me as I couldn't quite suppress a groan at my thoughts.

So much _shit_ could have been avoided if whatever entity that dropped me here had simply seen to one tiny little detail. If I could have only been "Robert-come-again", which I practically already _was_. But noooo, I had to be, and I will _**murder**_ whichever little shit coined the term, "Robert-with- _teats_ ".

* * *

And so begins the adventures of...  
"The Black Princess"


	2. A Quiet Morning

"WATCH YER LEFT ALY! DON'T LET THE CUNT FLANK YA!"

 _I see it_.

A quick pivot and swing of my hammer followed by a jab from my shield-hand had the red cloak dancing back. Unfortunately, that just left me open to receive a series of stinging hits as his two fellows moved in, capitalizing on my distraction. A growl and a few furious swings of my hammer drove the two back. Naturally, I received a slap from the training blade of the third for my efforts.

I was doing a fair imitation of Uncle Stannis, what with the teeth-grinding and all.

I had little experience fighting several opponents at once, so I should have been enjoying the experience at least for novelty's sake. There was some frustration that I was doing so poorly against a bunch of second-stringer nobodies, due to simple numerical disadvantage. I suppose that was the lesson?

What really was grinding my gears though, was the gleeful expression one red cloaked rat made whenever he poked me.

Granted, the chance to gang-up on me and regain some pride made for good motivation, especially for those that I had previously flattened. There were no shortage of volunteers among the guardsmen for today's exercise.

But this guy had no right to make such faces. He was a complete and total _scrub_. So fuck him and his stupid fucking face.

Eventually. His buddies were making it difficult to pound him into the ground.

We continued to beat each other across the training yard as Father likewise continued to bellow out advice and commentary.

The man had taken Jon's death as well as I'd figured. We'd arrived back at the Red Keep the day after Jon's bones had be sent to the Vale for interment, which had set off some sort of secondary grief spiral in Robert. I found him this morning in what could best be described as a sticky puddle of sundry fluids, by himself thankfully, with Sers Boros and Preston looking helplessly at each other over his groaning form. After a barrel of water and a not quite tremendous amount of cajoling to get himself picked up and out into the yard (I find channeling an over-excited puppy to be the best way to motivate Father. Works better than Mother's brand of browbeating at least.), he finally complied.

Rather than join me though, he plopped down on a stool, sent a page scurrying for a full wine skin, and ordered the master-at-arms to burn off some of my excess energy. I apparently I had far, far too much to spare at such an early hour.

I paraphrase; Robert hungover is far less eloquent that Robert drunk, and his exact words would have burnt the ears off a Fleabottom whore.

I may have overdone it with my enthusiasm.

The old ser in charge of the yard takes his orders seriously, and thus set me on three-on-one matches. I'm currently battling team number four. The master-of-arms had been rotating them regularly to keep them fresh. I noted sourly that my allowed rests aren't nearly as generous, but no one else seemed bothered. Jerks.

Last I chanced a look back, a table had been pulled out of somewhere and breakfast set out for the King, who was busy tucking in when he wasn't shouting color commentary. _At least he's having some food with his wine_ , I thought while another blow slipped through my guard to strike my hip. _That'll bruise_. In exchange I connected with the guardsman's shield, staggering him, but the other two were already pushing me back before I could press my advantage.

I was more than a little ragged at that point, I'd been swinging my hammer perhaps a _tiny_ bit harder than necessary. It really was an excellent work-out though. Look at me, all glass-half-full.

 _Poke_.

And now the glass is broken and I'm going to rub that scrub's face in the shards.

I forego defense entirely, accepting hits in exchange for a flurry of strikes that force the others away and finally allow me to close with my prey. Sadly my war hammer, a construction of pine and lead purpose-built for sparring, chose then to throw in the towel, the splintered head snapping off on the first blow against the scrub's shield. Not to be denied, I threw the ruined handle in his face. As he startled and batted away what was left of the hammer, I roared and charged, tackling the guardsmen into the dirt.

His fellows thoroughly punished me for leaving my back open, raining down a series of blows before the master-of-arms called an end to the bout. I hardly mind, the wheezing, honest-to-god _squeak_ the little rat made as I squished him did wonders for my mood. Father's pleased "HAH!" indicated that he likewise approved the maneuver.

The other guardsmen peeled the scrub off the ground as I begged off further training for the day made my goodbyes to the old ser. With a skip in my step, I whipped off my helmet and made my way over to Father and the two Kingsguard that had rotated on duty during one match or another.

Father was in much better spirits than when I found him that morning (an admittedly low par to pass but a win's a win in my book). Though he doesn't step into the yard as much as he used to, he never seems to tire of watching me put people into the dirt, especially if those people are in Mother's employ.

"What did you think of that, Selmy?" Robert asked through a mouthful of sausage. "Think we should send the whole sorry pack back to Tywin? My own daughter can still plant one of them like a turnip even after being beaten by a dozen others!"

"Combating multiple foes is a difficult feat to master, Your Grace," replied the old Kingsguard that had taken up position to Father's right. "Princess Alysanne's skills have already progressed quite well; with the resilience she has shown along her growing strength, I believe that your daughter will become quite formidable as her experience builds."

I preened at the praise.

"Perhaps we should prepare to hand in our white cloaks then, Ser Grandfather? I can't see much need for our swords if even princesses can face down a dozen men before noon. Seems a wasteful expense."

"Don't worry your pretty golden head, Kingslayer," Father drawled. "I'll still need you to watch the door when I'm...abed. Aly can't guard my chambers at the same time she's knocking the heads off my enemies."

Aww, he was going to say "fucking whores". He gets a little uncomfortable talking about his favorite pastime in front of me when he's mostly sober. It's kind of sweet, if you squint.

Or was it his second favorite? Third? I dunno, fighting, fucking, hunting, drinking, they're all up there.

"I'm relieved to know I shall always have employment in your service then, Your Grace," Ser Jamie Lannister replied as he shot me a smirk.

Uncle Jamie was a smug cunt.

I can appreciate a good smug as much as the next person, but Jamie is, bluntly, no fun. Uncle Tryion, now there's a fun guy, great sense of timing, life of the party. Jamie's fun is strictly for himself, and downright malicious at times. His humor was sharp and brittle, like broken glass. Even if he doesn't aim it at you, it was still uncomfortable to walk around.

That said, in Westeros a man may talk just as much shit as they like, so long as they can back it up. And _nobody_ can back it up like Uncle Jamie can. I remember a quote, from the book or the show, I forget exactly, something along the lines of Jamie proudly proclaiming that there's maybe three men in the Seven Kingdoms that could give him a decent fight. Turns out that's likely a generous estimate. The first time I ever saw Uncle Jamie fight in a melee I knew for a fact that magic was not gone from this world. Because _Jamie is magic_.

Jamie fucking Lannister is a goddamn _sword wizard_.

In my last life, I went to some renaissance fairs, saw some documentaries on medieval combat, watched as many videos on the internet as the next person. I can make no claim of expertise about what is and is not possible when it comes to a man holding a sharp stick of metal.

But I can safely say that, what I witness every time Uncle Jamie swings his sword with intent? It's not natural. It's mesmerizing; from the sheer speed it appears as if his blade is in three places at once, and for all I know that might actually be the case.

The air _ripples_ for god's sake!

And I'm the only one that seems to see it. Everyone else's commentary boils down to "yea dat dere Kingslayer feller is purdy gewd", like, they're appreciative of his skill, but, impossibly, not all that impressed? It's nuts. Seeing someone else on the receiving end is bad enough, but the few times I've sparred with the man? To compare, I'm basically a legless cow asking for directions to the nearest slaughterhouse.

Tearing my thoughts away from the bullshit that is Jamie Lannister, I ask, "So, now that the family's back together again, are the rumors true? Are we going to go see Uncle Eddard?"

If there are rumors I haven't heard them, but hey, foreknowledge.

"Aye, we'll be making the trip North soon. It's been far too long since I've seen Ned, not since the squids needed some killing. It's a long ride, especially with that damned wheelhouse dragging along. You'll like it Aly, it's not all that cold in the summer, bloody big forests to hunt in, interesting people, _good_ people...I haven't been up past the Neck since..." Father trailed off, a distant look in his eye.

I clapped my hands abruptly.

He blinks in confusion.

Let's head off that Jon grief from turning into Lyanna grief.

I smile and say brightly, "Well if it's been so long, why wait a moment longer? Let's go today! I'll go get cleaned up, you go tell Mother, and we can be saddled up in the next hour. Let's go!"

I'm no therapist, but I just can't stand to see him wallow. There'll always be time for him to be ground down under his pain later, when I run out of distractions.

Father shakes his head and scoffs, "So eager! I'd have thought that skirmish would have calmed you down some. I should have let Ser Barristan give you a personal session while you were at it."

Thanks dad, I was already hot and sweaty, the cold sweat evens things out nicely.

"Your mother'd take days to organize her entourage anyways."

Fair, we'll be on the road for _months_ after all and I'm probably the only one that's got my shit already packed.

(I ordered my maids to do it.)

"Then...we'll go scouting."

"Scouting."

"Yes, scouting! If we're quick about it, we can make it to Hayford before dark. We need to make sure the castle there is fit to receive the royal family. A surprise inspection! Sometimes you need to give the vassals a good surprise. Keeps them honest."

Barristan's looking a bit pained and Jamie's pulled out another of his infinite range of smirks, but the old man looks to be warming up to the idea. "We'd have to move fast if we're going to make it by nightfall..."

"The usual hunting retinue, plus a double-handful of extra mounted guards, and we should be good. Plus if you're out of the Keep then you and Mother don't have to argue over every little detail of the caravan. Make Uncle Renly do it."

Poor Renly.

"You Grace," Ser Barristan began, trying to head off what, while certainly not a security nightmare, might be a security headache. "Such a small party-"

"Hah! Are you worried about brigands Selmy? This close to the city? If only there was someone with such balls. Give me a chance to finally break in Fury properly. No, no I'm quite certain of the merit of this...scouting mission. Wouldn't want my family to be poorly accommodated. Who knows, maybe Lady Hayford's got a cellar full of dragon-lovers that we missed in the Rebellion. Wouldn't that be an adventure? Kingslayer! Go tell your sister that Renly is in charge of packing her small-clothes. Selmy! See to the details for the Hayford mission. Hold Ser Jamie, wait for me. I want to watch you tell her."

Robert levered himself off his stool and turned to me, ignoring my uncle's now irritated smirk (you can tell by the eyes). "You go get ready, I expect you to be on a saddle in an hour, can't have you late for your own mission now, can we?"

He paused a moment. "And go take a bath," he smirked. "You stink."

I huffed in mock-offense. Given my, well, _history_ , I've ended up as the acknowledged and undisputed odd-ball of the family, but only my firm stance on hygiene seems to give Father cause to comment. I once told him some years ago that my intense desire for cleanliness was simply my prerogative as a prim and proper pretty princess (I had an alliteration phase, I don't even know). At Father's blank look, Uncle Tyrion had just said, "No one likes a smelly girl." I maintain to this day that the old man laughed way too hard at that. It wasn't very funny. And ever since, he just loves to tweak me about my habits. Just because I bathe daily.

Sometime twice a day.

And introduced the world to floss.

Whatever. Barbarians.

"And tell your brother to come along too, get some fresh air, maybe kill something."

With that, Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, turned on his heel and strode away, with a not insubstantial portion of his breakfast still in his beard, to find his lady wife, so that he can, for the sole purpose of his own amusement, order her brother, one of the deadliest men alive, to tell his beloved sister that her flamboyant brother-in-law will be going through her underwear.

My father ladies and gentlemen.

After watching his liege's backside retreat through the gate, Ser Barristan turned to me with his usual stoic expression, yet somehow conveying just how very put-upon he was. Subtle creatures these Kingsguard are.

I gave him a bright smile in return.

Still stoic, but I detected a certain amount of flatness there. "The Northmen are renowned as fierce warriors. I can confirm this, having fought both against and alongside many. Women warriors are also more common and accepted there than south of the Neck. I look forward testing what you learn in yards of Winterfell."

Translation: You'd best learn some impressive moves up North if you want a snowball's chance in _hell_ of me not beating seven shades of shit out of you.

My smile turned brittle. "Yes! Well, I, ah, am sure the King is looking forward to it as well! He seemed quite enthused didn't he?"

"Indeed."

I winced. "At least he's not stuck to the floor anymore?"

Ser Barristan sighed. "At least he'll be making a mess of someone else's castle for a while."

His expression softened.

Minutely.

"His Grace has many demons, I cannot grudge you much for assuaging them as best you can."

So still a bit of grudging then.

"Will you be taking your usual retinue with the King to Hayford?"

"Just Guyard and Qyburn. My handmaidens and Qyburn's assistants will be instructed to report to Uncle Renly for placement among the royal entourage."

"Very well. I'll make the necessary arrangements for the scouting party." He clapped his hand to my shoulder and offered a firm nod. "I'll leave you to carry out your tasks." And with that, the living legend left to go about his duties.

I in turn made my way to my quarters, flagging down a couple servants and sending them ahead to get my bath ready and to track down Joff and relay Father's command. He _probably_ won't run to Mother to complain, if only due to how soon we're leaving, but all this back-to-back travel is making everyone cranky, so we'll see.

I'd be cranky too if hadn't been spending the whole ride back from the Rock busy thinking about Plot.

The good news was that Uncle Stannis was still at court when we arrived, so that's a good sign of no Incestigation (oh my god, move over Twincest, there's a new portmanteau in town!) taking place. We even talked at dinner, and after the usual unpleasant pleasantries he gave me the news that Lady Arryn had made tracks along with her entire household, Sweetrobin in tow, well before Jon Arryn had finished lying in state.

Poor Grandpa Jon's bones had to be escorted to the Gates of the Moon by a contingent of Stormlander knights of all things.

So that boded ill for everything.

Though, all things considered, if Lysa (I never ever tried the "Grandma" card with that bag of crazy) did indeed bump off her husband instead of his death merely being an awful coincidence (Hah!), then it could have been any number things that set her off. Most likely it was Jon trying to foster little Robert off somewhere. Stannis didn't mention anything about it, but even if he wasn't offered Sweetrobin as a ward, fostering the boy _somewhere_ was likely still on Jon's mind. So, Lady Aryn's flight is discouraging, but not by itself damning, and nothing useful has been confirmed yet. Great.

I arrived at my chambers to find a hot bath already steaming. Given that my bizarre fondness for sterilization was a well known fact, there always was some water on the boil somewhere, so a hot bath could be whipped up rather quickly.

I stepped behind a screen to strip off my padded training clothes, rattling off instructions for those in my household journeying North with me, those staying behind, and also if someone could get me an inventory of the remaining books held in the Tower of the Hand for my future perusal that would be swell. My handmaidens were to get out my clean riding leathers, a servant would be sent to fetch my things from the armory, and the stables would ready my horse. My sole remaining maid was already working my hair out of its braid as I sank into the copper tub (bathing attendants: now THAT had been an adjustment from the old life).

I decided to sit back and focus on nothing else besides not drowning for a few minutes. I am a very busy princess, and I'll not be begrudged a few minutes' rest while I graciously allow another to work on my glorious mane.

I idly began counting my forming bruises.

There were a fair amount.

Tomorrow's gonna suck.  
 _  
Barristan will leave even more,_ I think morosely.

Ugh, I should be grateful, it's not like the greatest living knight takes time to spar with just anyone. For all that the Kingsguard spend most of their days just standing around their charges, probably praying for just one measly little assassin to show up to get gutted just to liven up their day, they are surprisingly busy. Ser Barristan as Lord Commander is particularly swamped, what with small council meetings, supervising his sworn brothers, sparring with them, keeping himself fit, coordinating security of the entire Red Keep, and the aforementioned long stretches of time just waiting and hoping and praying for someone to do something stupid. So really, a spar with him is should be quite the treat.

But whenever he calls me to the yard, all I feel is a deep unease.

Remember Jamie fucking Lannister, sword wizard? Yeah, Barristan's got some magic in him too. It's a different kind; where Jamie is greased lightning, the Old Bold is just...inevitable. One moment you're in front of him, then the next your weapon is on the ground, you're on the ground, and his sword's at your neck.

And that's just how it is.

Jamie overwhelms opponents with an impossible quicksilver barrage of strikes, while Barristan simply disassembles whatever and whoever is placed before him. Don't get me wrong, the man is a wealth of knowledge and I walk away a better warrior every time we fight, but it's never something I look forward too. It's like, sparring against Barristan is great practice; if you're planning on facing the damn Stranger himself in battle. That's a good comparison, I think. If there is a source, or some system, to whatever magic is in these people, I would say Jamie is purely of the Warrior, and while it would be just plain stupid to say Barristan is not, more than anything he is of the Stranger.

And now I'm being pulled out of the tub; apparently bath-time is over. I must have been zoning out something fierce.

And weren't those some dark thoughts?

Thanks dad, you wiped some of your depression off on me. Eugh.

Yes thank you for the towel I am paying attention now.

So pushy.

You are lucky you work for me and not little bro or he would have told Mother a story and you would be in some _shit_. But nope you've proven to be one diligent little lady and now you're making the big bucks on Aly's payroll. It's funny because I pay you in silver stags and a buck is actually and now you're putting my clothes on me as you've accurately surmised that I am in fact a giant toddler.

See what I mean? Diligent.

I'll roll with it as I have proven to be very incapable this morning. Maybe I'm a bit more tired than originally estimated. Did I skip breakfast this morning? I did skip breakfast this morning that'll do it. Where's a minion there's a minion could you oh wow that's a full platter. I have the best help.

One savaged heap of assorted meats and fresh fruits later (royalty yo), I'm feeling more like myself. I can only conclude that the canon train has me more rattled than I thought.

 _At least the stress hasn't affected my complexion yet_ , I idly muse as I stretch in front of a mirror. All leathered and braided up, I look like a teenaged Wonder Woman at Bike Week.

Certainly not a bad look.

If nothing else, it sure proves some fan theories that there's some time fuckery afoot in the World of Ice & Fire. At the end of this year I will turn fourteen years old (ten and four in the local parlance), but the person looking back at me in the mirror right now is easily sixteen. I shrug; a mystery for another day perhaps.

Bidding my household staff farewell, I start making my way down to the stables when a page nearly runs into me and informs me that my princely brother will be meeting Father and I there shortly.

Bit surprised there wasn't more of a fuss but Father didn't ask, he _told_ Joff to be there and, well, _King_.

So maybe three days, tops, before Mother leads the convoy out of the city, ready or not. In the meantime, guards and squires and minions and assorted hangers-on aside, it'll be just a King, his heir, and his #1 daughter, having some good ol' family bonding time, just bumming around the Hayford lands and generally being giant moochers.

Should be fun.


	3. Family Fun

No words were spoken, but I could tell what that aborted squeak meant all the same. He was doing his best to keep silent, but the excitement was clearly getting to him.

I tilted my head in acknowledgment, keeping my eyes focused in front. "Almost there," I assured him, my voice the barest whisper.

I continued to inch forward, little by little. Joff doggedly kept pace at my right, crawling forward on his elbows to keep that heavy weapon of his off the ground. Soon enough, we arrived and I gestured at my brother to stop. Peering through the tall grass, I couldn't help but grin at the sight before me.

The little pond was absolutely littered with ducks.

I _love_ duck.

Quietly, I set down my handful of arrows and carefully stood them up, sinking a line of steel tips into the muddy ground. Joff took the opportunity to catch his breath, almost vibrating in anticipation.

Preparation complete, I slowly worked my way up to a crouch and knocked my remaining arrow, wishing all the while that my bow was a shotgun instead. "Remember what we need?" I whispered, glancing over at Joffrey.

"Most and biggest," he softly replied, kneeling while trying to get a handle on the oversized Myrish crossbow. I was mildly impressed he made the whole awkward crawl here without loosing the bolt. They don't make those things with safeties and frankly his trigger discipline was shit.

Finally satisfied with his grip, he looked over and nodded at me.

"On three then." I returned the nod and turned forward to pick out dinner.

"One."

All was quiet, save for the intermittent quacks of the ducks. The air stilled under the overcast sky, nature holding it's own breath.

"Two."

Somewhere, a frog croaked.

(Distantly, I might have also heard a certain sworn shield mutter something disparaging about theatrics. Perhaps he was trying to tell me that he didn't want any duck tonight?)

"Three."

I stood up quickly as I hissed out the final number. I pulled the string taunt, lining up my shot on the little brown-feathered head I'd picked out, and I-

"YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAGGHH!"

-rolled my eyes at my brother's war cry, loosing the arrow at the same time. I caught my target through the chest as it reared up at the commotion. I had my next arrow knocked as a loud FWTHOO! sounded from the crossbow. Somehow, I missed the next shot despite the pond's surface suddenly being covered in churning wings. I lined up a third as I heard the odd KRICK-CLUNK of another bolt being readied. With a THWIPP!, I tag a duck on the wing.

FWTHOO!

THWIPP!

KRICK-CLUNK

THWIPP!

* * *

We had managed to make it to Hayford with an hour of daylight to spare. There had not been a single suicidal bandit in sight, to the King's mild disappointment. No one had remembered to send out a raven beforehand, so it was only when Father sent an outrider galloping ahead, that Hayford Castle learned that they were to receive a royal visit.

With the King himself all of a half-hour away.

This set the Crownland household in something of a tizzy.

We were met by the castellan on our arrival, who begged our forgiveness as it would take some time for a proper reception to be organized, as the heavily pregnant Lady Hayford had gone into labor shortly after our outrider had arrived.

Whoops.

I offered the services of my personal physician, Qyburn, to assist with the birth. After explaining that "physician" meant "professional healer", they readily accepted. Qyburn proved his worth as, despite serious complications, Ermesande Hayford entered the world that evening. And there was no sign that her lady mother would be leaving it anytime soon. With such a success after a prior string of miscarriages, the strained smiles of the household turned genuine, and our band of royal interlopers was showered with gratitude.

Qyburn was such a good get.

Father declared the birth to be the successful completion of our mission, which confused many, but in his defense by then he was deep into his cups. Anyways, the comment was largely ignored when he then sent for a few wagons of drink and sundries so that a proper celebration may be held in recognition.

The next morning, my worries about finding the King in another puddle were rapidly dispelled. Father was in high spirits, and speedily organized a hunt to help supply the evening's feast.

It could have gone better.

* * *

"Wipe that look off your face, and keep your head up! If you find a boar by staring at your feet, then it's already gored you!"

"But there's not even any boars here; we've been looking for hours!"

"So what? You not enjoying yourself? Perhaps you'd rather spend the day hiding behind your mother's skirts? Is that it boy?"

And the day had started out so well too. Father had a rare fire lit under him that morning and was brimming with vigor. Little Ermesand's birth must have had an effect on him; he seemed abnormally happy when he was asked to hold the babe before we left. Something about being blessed by the King, I wasn't paying attention, but whatever works to keep his spirits up. Even Joff seemed quite enthused to be going on the hunt, which was uncommon for him.

(I was just pleased that yesterday's bruising wasn't bothering me at all, what with the salve Qyburn had whipped up. Hadn't even asked, he just gave me a jar of the stuff before we left the Red Keep. _Such_ a good get.)

That was some hours ago. The Kingswood, this was not. This little patch of forest was within spitting distance of the village built under the shadow of Hayford Castle, and was known by the locals as simply "the woods". It was still a fair bit of land to ride through, quite pretty really, but game was awfully scarce. The huntsmen in the party had snagged a handful of smaller critters, squirrels and birds and such, but nothing that'd make a good centerpiece for the feast. Even the dogs hadn't turned up much.

This itself was fine with Father; there are no guarantees when it comes to a hunt after all. If, after a couple hours or so of little luck, Robert switches gears and the hunt becomes little more than a casual outdoor stroll, with the end goal shifting from actual hunting to achieving a deep but pleasant level of drunkenness. He would say that he could always kill something the next day.

On the bad days he combines both goals simultaneously, which can go poorly.

But it was a good day, so Father didn't start getting sauced until we came across an old set of boar tracks. He then declared that he was splitting the party, and also ditching the horses. This allowed the huntsmen a chance to bag more critters, the guardsmen a chance to rest while they minded our steeds, and let the royal family have some quality time together.

It was just the three of us, the quiet beauty of nature, and a lot of alcohol (not unlike fishing really). Well, us plus our minders: a pair of white cloaks for the King, a sullen Hound for the Prince, and my green crow.

Also Tyrek, because someone needed to carry Father's booze.

"What is there to enjoy? There is NOTHING here aside from the trees, and we've already seen them all! Look, we passed that one an hour ago! I know because I can see where I hit it with my sword the first time!" Lion's Tooth was gestured irritably for emphasis.

The problem was, as is far too often in these situations, Joffrey.

My brother's problem...well, he has several problems, but the one that causes the most friction between him and the old man?

He gets bored.

With virtually _everything_.

So bored.

Honestly, if I could just magic up Joff a Playstation and a stack of first-person-shooters, life would be so much easier for everyone.

This is the worst kind of hunt for him to be on. If we don't kill something relatively quickly, he'll get bored. And when he gets bored, he doesn't keep it to himself. And when unburdening himself, he is rarely graceful about it.

He's a whiner, our Joff is.

"What are you doing swinging your bloody sword at the bloody trees for? That how you enjoy yourself, ruining things?!"

And so Joffrey had, once more, committed the unforgivable sin of _harshing the King's buzz_.

In my brother's defense, it was pretty boring out here. I enjoy nature as much as the next person, perhaps even more now in my second life, but if the option were there I'd rather be doing something else. But Father is the one with the crown and he wants to do this and so here we are. Its best to just roll with it; I've tried to impart this wisdom on the boy, but Joff just can't help himself.

"Ruin what?! It's a _sword_! It's _meant_ to cut things!"

There's what all my efforts over the years have wrought. Used to be when Father started yelling at my brother, he'd turn quiet and sullen. Now he gets _argumentative_.

Call it a lateral upgrade?

"Five stags says young Tyrek'll be buffing the dings out of that blade tonight," mutters a certain crow.

The number of these little outings that I'd count as successful is fairly low. Too often things proceed too slowly, so Joffery whines, then Robert snaps at him, the volume escalates as barbs begin to be exchanged, the rest of the party tries very hard to pretend to be trees or invisible or otherwise fade into the background, and nobody has a good time.

A quiet reply comes from a certain towering horror, "No bet."

I'm truly surprised that Joff still gets ordered to tag along as often as he does. Not encouraged, but surprised.

"Either way, the boar that left these tracks is likely long gone. We probably don't need these anymore," I interject before Father can work up to something real cutting, waving about my boar spear. "Brother, why don't we go back to the horses and collect our bows? We should try to have something to show for our efforts, even if it's only a rabbit or two."

Come on, I put it down, now pick it up.

Absently swinging his sword at the air, Joffrey mulishly replies, "Let's just go back _now_! It's not like we'll go hungry if we come back empty handed."

Dammit Joff.

"No, we won't bloody starve if we don't kill anything, you shit," Robert sneers. "I'm the fucking King and you're the bloody Crown Prince. We could do nothing our whole lives and a whole bloody army of servants will find food for us, cook it for us, serve it to us, and fucking chew it for us if we demand. It doesn't matter if we kill nothing or every fucking animal from here to Harrenhall! All that matters is that we're out here, and bloody well _trying_. A man doesn't sulk his way home when the beasts don't fucking line up to fall on his spear, he still tries all the same! By the gods boy, even your own sister is still eager to try to spill some blood today. Can't you even be more of a man than her?!"

With a final huff, the King turns and stomps away. My brother flushes at Father's chastisement, embarrassed, but _I'm_ the one that he turns his glare on before trudging off himself.

Great, now I feel bad too.

I allow myself a sigh and a slump of the shoulders before I move to follow. It's always the same with those two. They'll start butting heads and if I try to divert their anger or deescalate, more often than not it ends up with Father holding me up and asking Joffrey why can't he be more like me. Father ends up frustrated and angry, Joffrey resentful and angry, and I just feel crummy.

There's not even a twinge to my temper. Between my foreknowledge and having grown up again with these people, I just feel _sad_ watching it all. I can't _not_ try to help. Especially when I'm fairly certain my very existence strains their relationship worse than it was in canon.

I've thought a fair bit about it. I'm basically the child that Robert always wanted, but I'm not his _son_ , not his _heir_. Like it or not, that slot, with all the special significance that this culture puts on it, is filled by Joffrey. Joffrey, who would fall short of Robert's expectations were I not even here. But I am here, and how can he _not_ look at me, living proof of what _could_ be, and _not_ see Joffrey as an even greater disappointment by comparison?

On the other side of the chasm is Joffrey, desperate for his father's approval. The boy _craves_ attention. But excepting some all too-brief moments, he just can't bridge the gap between himself and Robert. The root cause is irrelevant, be it his own inclinations, our family's status, Mother's influence, _whatever_ , coming to an understanding with Father has always been a hurdle he struggles with.

Then there's me, wedging that gap between the two a little wider every time Robert points and me and asks, why aren't you her? Even with that special position of heir and the assurance it should provide, the knowledge that Robert sees me as Joffrey's better has to be a serious blow. He would have to be a saint not to feel any resentment, and he is certainly no saint.

It's quite the fucking mess, all things considered.

Though, that had been the first time Father has used the "be more a man than your sister" line, specifically.

I feel an odd pang as I consider that. Perhaps it is due to my specific circumstances. But it makes me wonder...I know that he wishes Joff to be more like me...but what of myself? Does he wish that I wasn't...Would he prefer that _I_ not be _me_?

...I don't want to unpack this.

So I don't.

The rest of the party falls in behind me, good little monkeys all, seeing, hearing, speaking nothing.

* * *

The atmosphere was exactly as uncomfortable as you think it would be.

Fortunately, not ten minutes later, the mood was broken by several sharp trumpeting notes, coming from close by.

 _Saved by the hunting horn_.

I whipped my spear off my shoulder and stood ready, scanning the wood for movement. Father was much the same ahead of me. Joffrey, having forgone a spear in favor of his new sword, also came alert, head whipping back and forth.

Drama, what drama? Never happened. We're just here to kill things. Surely you've mistaken us for some other dysfunctional family?

We advanced cautiously, as more horns join the first. Seemed the hunters' quarry was heading our way.

I spotted it first, a brown blur between the trees. "There!" I point with my raised spear.

The blur zipped out of the treeline practically right in front of us. It turned out to be a young buck, small antlers with four points, not a terribly impressive size but still plenty of meat to be had, an assessment shared by the huntsmen if the arrow jutting from its side was any indication.

The stag was already turning away, twisting towards the right in that odd, bouncing gait that deer have. It wasn't too far away, if we had bows in hand it'd been a pincushion, easy. Too far for a spear though, especially with the thing already moving to escape.

My opinion was immediately discarded, as with a crunching thud a spear slammed straight into the stag's chest. The blow _shoved_ the animal back, forelegs leaving the ground as its head whipped down. The sudden reversal of momentum caused the beast's hindquarters to fly up, its back curling into an L-shape for a moment before it all collapsed in a ruined heap.

"HAH! Jumpy little shit never knew what hit it!"

"A fine throw, Your Grace," chipped in a Kingsguard.

It had taken all of two seconds for the old man to perceive his target, aim, and throw a boar spear more than thirty feet to hit a maybe ten-inch moving target with such force that it was like the poor stag ran into a damn _wall_. And he did this all, _drunk_.

Christ.

Suddenly in a much better mood now that he'd gotten something good and dead, Father ambled over to the wreck as the huntsmen began jogging out of the woods. Surveying his kill for a few moments, he apparently found it satisfactory and with a nod to himself, wrenched his spear free and began snapping orders.

"Alright you lot, see to the kill. A stag brought down by a stag shall suffice to honor our host, hah! Call the rest of the party together. Greenfield, go find my horse. We're heading back to the castle. Tyrek! Wine me boy! I've worked up a thirst!"

Father worked through another wine skin while our horses were collected and the party reformed. He ribbed me for being too slow on the draw while I insisted that the stag must have tripped and fell onto the spear.

Overall a successful hunt.

Though the look Joff gave me as I bantered with Father was a reminder that all had not gone well.

* * *

"What did I hit? Did you see?"

"I'm not sure of what _I_ hit the way the pond was churned up, let alone your hits. We'll know when the pages fish the carcasses out."

"I must have skewered two at a time, perhaps even three!"

"Never doubted that thing's power, it's only the reload speed I question. And what was with that scream there?"

"I thought I would cower my prey with a war cry. I thought they'd be fixed with fear, not try to run away. Isn't that the point?"

"Well you should never underestimate the power of a good war cry. You're a Baratheon, you're made to be loud. Add in the whole "Hear Me Roar" business and it's practically expected of you. The volume was good, you just need to work on your technique."

"What would you advise?"

"Say your war cry."

"What?"

"The noise you made, repeat it to me but without yelling. Say it to me like it's just another word in our conversation."

"Um, yeagh?"

"Hmm, not a _great_ yell in and of itself, you're just opening your mouth and the sound falls out. Sure, you can scream it as loud as you want to, but there's no real technique. Depending on the situation, a simple loud yell can be useful, but you can make it be so much more, so long as you properly project your intent."

"How do I do that?"

"Using words appropriate to the situation is simplest. Just yell them out as loud as you can. It's a good way to convey information: 'Traitors!' lets all know that there are untrustworthy people in their midst, 'To Me!' lets your allies know to rally on you, 'Cunts!' lets your foes know that you don't like them. I know Sandor's a fan of that last one."

"So the trick is to choose the right words?"

"It certainly helps. Screaming 'Sausage!' at people would just confuse them. Another important bit is internalization. You should fill your mind with your intent, the feelings that you wish to convey, be it fear, inspiration, hatred, whatever. As you let loose your war cry, you take those feelings and send them at your target. If your mind is filled with the intent of 'I shall slay this whoreson where he stands!', then that same cry of 'Sausage!' shall inspire fear in your foes. The confusion is just a bonus at the point."

"That does not sound quite right. How does screaming about food cause people to fear?"

"Oh it's a subtle thing to be sure. Context is key, your war cry will be more effective if you are running at a person with naked steel in hand, more so than if you used the same cry on the same person while sitting in a chair. But by internalizing your intent, your body and actions will instinctively attempt to convey that intent. Like I said, subtle. Back me up here Sandor."

The Hound just gives me a _look_.

"See? He agrees."

"That did not appear to be an expression of agree-"

Without looking, I jab finger at the crow and silence his insubordination. "I do not pay you for unsolicited opinions. I pay you to follow me around and try to and fail to be imposing."

That earns an ugly "Heh" from Clegane. Not sure which scorecard that should go on, but it's a point and I earned it, so I'll take it.

"You don't pay me at all." Guyard counters, somehow conveying an eye-roll through speech alone. "Your father does."

"I could ask him not to?"

"And be released from my vows as your sword shield? Oh no. Please do not."

"Remember your place knight! I'll not have you speak in such a tone to my sister!"

"Peace brother, crows caw, it's what they do. And if he didn't warble so, how could I enjoy the knowledge of his suffering?"

"His suffering?"

"It is sweet to my ears. Now then, words are good, but a nice, general-purpose war cry is something that should be in every warrior's arsenal. I prefer " **Furarh**!" myself, but-"

"That sounds very strange."

"One day in the yards a string of curses I that was reciting started to run together and it just came out. Anywa-"

"I've never heard you yell that before."

"I yell lots of things. You can't expect to have heard them all. And this isn't about me, this is about you and striking fear into the hearts of all you oppose you! Now, 'ah' is a fairly weak noise by itself, too little depth. You need to put your guts into it, draw the noise out from deep inside. Let's go with a good ol' roar, a nice way honor to Mother's line, and it's not like stags are known for any particular noise. Start out with a steady 'Rrrrrrr' to get warmed up."

"Rrrrrrr-"

"Not quite. It should be more grumbly, it has to come from inside your chest. Oh! Like how a cat purrs, but adding voice to the rumble."

" **Rrrrrrrrrrrrr** "

"Yes! Now tack an 'uh' onto that. Use the 'Rrrrrrr' to draw up the noise from the bottom of your stomach, like winching a bucket of water up from a well."

" **Rrrruuuuuh** "

"You've got it, now complete that roar! Shout out to the heavens like a mighty beast! Imagine a lion standing over a fresh kill! Or Grandfather finding out that he missed a Reyne!"

" **RRRRRUUUUUUUUUUAAAARRRRR!** "

"Now there's a war cry that'll stop a foe in its tracks! Feel free to experiment, make something that feels right for you!"

"You seem to be quite knowledgeable about this topic for one who has never been on a battlefield."

"The Grand Maester is quite knowledgeable about old Valyria, do you supposed he's been there Ser Guyard?"

"I imagine that he read about it in a book, Your Grace."

"Could I not have also read about the proper way to craft a war cry in a book then?"

"Did you?"

"Can you prove I didn't?"

" **RRRRRAAAAAAAUUUUUURRRRR!** "

"A fine effort brother!"

The shouting lessons started to lose Joffrey's interest as my irreverence waned, but the unlucky pages finally returned with our catch. It had taken quite some time, even though the pond was neither terribly large nor deep. As they emerged from the high grass it became apparent that they were struggling mightily with some creature. Alarmed, I put a hand to my dagger and started forwar-

*HONK!*

Oh what the fu-

* * *

The Hayfords put on a pretty nice spread for a middling sized-holding. Heavily supplemented by the King's largess yes, but the cooks here were no slouches. One of the perks of being royalty is that you'll have more than your share of good meals along the way, and being seated at Robert Baratheon's table for most of those meals? Pretty well versed on the topic of medieval cuisine here. Freshly baked black bread with gobs of butter, chicken glazed in honey, and tiny spiced carrots were among the highlights. Someone in the kitchens had an unfortunate fascination with jellied meats, but the venison was nicely seasoned. Gaminess hardly registers on my palette anymore; given Father's hobbies, it's strange for dinner _not_ to taste gamey.

Some hangers-on had arrived along with the wagons from the capital, but the King's irregularly small party kept the hall from being too crowded. Father was parked in the seat of honor, naturally, while the Lady Hayford had recovered enough to be seated next to him. Qyburn sat at the Lady's right, both to monitor her still fragile health and to honor his services.

Joff sat at Father's side, leftover petulance from earlier lingering around the prince like a miasma. Despite their problems, even Father would be loath to give such a public snub to Joff, like seating his own heir farther away from him than necessary. I sat at Joff's left, while to my left one of the castle's senior household knights sat.

Not sure what was going on with Hayford internal politics, but from the murderous looks the middle-aged Ser Darrol received from a fair few other diners, there must have been some pushing and shoving and maybe even hair pulling to claim the last free seat next to the royals.

Due to equal parts Father's permissiveness, Mother's...Motherness, and my own disinterest, I'll never excel at playing the part of the highborn lady. I'd rank myself...hmm...eh, let's go with a C-minus in that skill set. My resulting awkwardness has been mostly smoothed over due to my youth (also Father's the King, that's a _huge_ bonus to social saving throws), but the future might be rough. Still, Ser Darrol was exceedingly polite and accommodating as I muddled my way through small talk.

Yes, the weather is fair and this Summer seems to have no end yet in sight.

Lord Arryn's passing was tragic of course, but he had a long and full life and the Seven surely welcomed him with open arms.

Yes, we are journeying north to Winterfell once the rest of the royal party catches up. I wonder what the King plans on discussing with Lord Stark?

A new grandson? Oh, you must be so proud.

And so on and so forth. Eventually there was some talk about a nephew and opportunities for squiring at court, but if there is one lesson that my comportment instructors managed to drill into my head it was that you _never_ promise _anyone_ jack shit. I managed to evade any commitments with what I will insist was grace, should anyone ever ask. I did find out more about the lay of the fief's lands and what should be promising places to scare up some game. Always good information to have with Father around.

Speaking of Father, he was currently regaling half of the table (couldn't tell if he was speaking to anyone directly; with his lungs, the man was built for playing to a crowd) with the tale of how he secured the night's main course. It wasn't a bad account, spinning the hours of walking around the woods with wine skin in hand into a gritty tale of man vs. nature, completely omitting the family strife, and weaving some lovely embellishments into an already impressive take-down.

"And now the beast shall take one last leap, right down my gullet!" Father finished, taking an exaggerated chomp out of his dinner. The applause and cheers that followed were enthusiastic and genuine. Granted, he was the King, he could have told a story so dry it would leave listeners dusty and still he would be cheered.

But that was Robert's charm; when his spirits were high, all he needed was a little wine and a little time and there would be few that could not love him.

"Why is it that we eat stag?"

The hall quieted as Father slowly turned to his right, a quizzical look on his face. "What's that boy?"

"Why do we eat that which is on our sigil?"

What are you doing Joffrey.

"A sigil is supposed to be a symbol of a house's strength."

Joffrey no.

"What does it mean for the stag to be prey, that we kill and eat them as a matter of course?" Joffrey continues, his cheeks flushed.

Did no one water his wine down?! Yes this is an excellent blackberry and it would be a shame to dilute it _but there are greater travesties to be averted_.

"We don't eat _lions_. Why do we eat stags?"

Is Mother a warg? Is that what's happening right now? Is Mother warging you Joffrey? Because that's what it sounds like Joffrey!

Father had since rebuilt his buzz from earlier and was currently expanding his operations into tipsy. As such, Joffrey's words were taking some time to penetrate through to the old man's mind, but they were getting there. It was coming in just around the edges, not unlike a gathering storm front, but an experienced eye such as my own could see it: that still-questioning frown would soon be one _ugly_ scowl.

And then Joffrey opened his mouth again.

"Sigils!" I blurted out.

Well, I now had everyone's undivided attention.  
 _  
Shit_.

I had nothing. Okay, I had some burning resentment for the room full of people that were content to watch this unfolding train wreck just happen, but nothing useful. Seriously everyone here is dead to me now. Especially you Darrol.

"There are many different sigils in the Seven Kingdoms." _Duh_. _Dropping some hot knowledge here, me_.

Take a sip of wine, looooong sip, thinkthinkthinkthinkthink sip's done here goes.

"There are deadly beasts, like wolves, lions, bears, scorpions. There fantastic and strange things, mermen or griffons or even a chained giant. The blue falcon is the best known, but every bird I can think of has likely graced a knight's shield at one time or another."

Hah! I'll bet they think I actually know where I'm going with this. Suckers.

"There are...(crapcrapcrapneedaword)...more... _mundane_ things. Pieces of armor. Towers. Flowers and trees. Some are no more than simple shapes and colors...(ohohoh!)there's even a broken wagon wheel!" There were a couple titters at that! I am on fire.

"There's as many sigils as there are houses, and as many houses as there are sigils." Now that was a nice, empty sentence. And here comes the point that I totally didn't just come up with! "The meaning of those sigils however...there are as many of those as there are people.

"For instance, take the dire wolf of House Stark. A dire wolf is fierce and dangerous, an obvious symbol of the strength of the Starks of Winterfell. But what else is a wolf? It is a pack animal. It joins together with its fellows to hunt and defend and thrive. So the wolf is not just strength, it is unity. And in the white winds and snows of winter, unity is worth even more than strength, for often it is the lone wolf which dies, while the pack survives."

Thanks for the paraphrased gravitas Ned! I think I might be able to pull this off and holy shit Father is _rapt_. Oh, new thought!

"A dire wolf is also a rare breed, extinct in all lands but Beyond the Wall. A rare and marvelous creature, the world would be a lesser place without it. As I'm sure my Kingly father would agree, Lord Eddard Stark is a rare man, and the world is bettered by his presence."

Father gives me a slow nod at that. What is with this intensity oh my god I've been hitting his Lyanna trigger. _FUCK_. Moveonmoveonmoveon.

"Andwhatoflions?" Gah, let's ease up on those reigns. "Another deadly beast, when one sees the golden lion they see strength. But the lion is more than its strength, it is pride as well! The pride of the lion compels it to show the world that it is worthy of respect!" Whatelsewhatelsewhate-GOT IT. "And the lion is territorial, defending it's sovereignty to the death; one need only hear the Rains of Castamere if any proof is needed of that.

"This is but what I see in the sigils, the symbols of those great houses. You may see the same, or you may see more. Your observations are no less valid as mine."

Deep breath now.

"But then what of the stag?

"A stag is a creature that dwells in the woodlands throughout the entire realm. It eats grass and leaves and other such fare. It is preyed upon by all manner of beast, and men feast on it's flesh ravenously. One may look upon a stag and see nothing more than a mere cow, simply grazing away until it is time for the slaughter."

You could have heard a pin drop in that hall. Not that I could have heard it over my heart hammering away. _When did I stand up?_

"And one may think the stag helpless and try to bring it to slaughter...and one may find themselves gored, draped across the antlers of the stag, just like so many before!"

And there's a roar of approval.

"The stag is strength! It is muscle and horn and power and fury! Nothing else in the woodlands grows as powerful as the stag; it is the King of the forest, protector of all within it!"

Another roar.

"There was a time when a man, no, a beast, sought to slaughter the stag, to see it roast over its cook fires. It thought the stag mere prey, arrogant and secure in its own might. We all know how that story went. We all know the story of how the stag fought and bashed and trampled and gored in its fury! We all know the story of how the stag slew a dragon!"

Father's shout was by far the loudest at that. What can I say? I know my audience.

"We all know how the stag formed armies and united men against the beast, how the stag shared its strength with them, and how, with a cry of 'NO MORE!', the stag cast the beast and all its kind from these lands forever!"

One more.

"The forests which the stag lords over stretch all across the realm. How appropriate then, that we crowned the stag, and now the entire realm is the stag's forest to lord over, to protect all within with its strength!"

I wait for the noise to die down before I wrap it all up.

"So I implore you all to eat hearty," I say as I sit back down. "Let the stag, the sigil of our house, and the symbol of our strength, nourish and empower you. Do not waste an opportunity to share in the strength of the stag."

I pause, pick a piece of venison off of my plate and hold it up, as if idly considering it.

"After all."

I turn back to my audience and smile.

"You are what you eat."

 _Nailed it_.

For a moment, there is silence, and I'm suddenly less sure whether that's an existing idiom in this world.

Then Father lets loose with a deep belly laugh and the rest of the hall is right behind him in showing their amusement. Even Joff joins in on the laughter, no sign remaining of whatever that bout of temporary insanity was all about. My anxiety bleeds away at the dual public speaking/Baratheon-bomb defusal successes. It's a fleeting peace that I've achieved, yes, but I shall savor it all the same.

"HAH! As my daughter requests," the King chuckled, tears of mirth rolling down his face. "Eat up everyone! Leave no plate clean! Tonight, you'll all have a little bit of Baratheon in you!"

And with that unfortunate bit of phrasing, an unreasonably eventful dinner passed.

* * *

With still no sign of the caravan from King's Landing, I figured that Father would be taking us out hunting again.

There certainly wasn't any venison left over.

Now that I think about it, that was actually a very strong response for a Crownlander audience, considering the content of my little speech. I did manage a nice bit of PR spinning there towards the end, if I do say so myself. Then again, maybe it was just nobody wanting to chance a hammer to the face. The King was right there after all.

Regardless, it soon became clear that the old man had a different activity in mind for the day, given the eyes he was making at that cute brunette serving girl during breakfast. Looked like someone would be getting just a little bit more Baratheon in them soon.

Perhaps it was out of respect for his host or due to my presence, but he was trying to be subtle about the whole thing, which was kind of hilarious. Subtle is simply not in Father's vocabulary. Still, better than just throwing out that "hey, come here a minute" line. Which works _stupidly_ well when you're the King. Probably the whole king versus servant power disparity business at work...gonna stop thinking about all that before my breakfast is ruined.

Joff was right there though, and was rarely was spared the same considerations as me. My brother's views on Father's second (?) favorite hobby are, ah, dim. I chalk it up to Mother. Still, probably should get him out of here before the girl ends up in Father's lap.

"Brother mine," I say loudly, so as to get both his and Father's attention. Anyone else's notice is irrelevant, as they are still quite dead to me. Royalty must not go back on their word after all. "I believe there is a deficiency that we must address."

"How do you mean?" Joffrey replies, confused.

"We did not return with any game yesterday."

Joffery made a face, likely recalling how yesterday's family time went. "Father slew that stag. It was plenty to gift to our host's table."

"Yes, but you and I slew nothing ourselves! I propose we go out once more today to remedy this deplorable state of affairs."

"Yesterday's hunting was poor enough." Joff, your face is going to stick like that. What have I told you?

"If game is scarce, then we simply reduce the players. We shall leave our Kingly father to the company of our gracious host. He has had his fun already. It shall be just you and I this day, and we shall prowl further afield for our quarry. The honor of our house demands it!"

All sorts of crap was falling out of my mouth, but the people of Westeros seem to expect a bit of theater in their day-to-day. A little pomp, a dash of ham, some silliness, it all helps to grease the wheels, plus it's kinda fun.

Joffrey dropped the scowl/pout he had been sporting and now looked contemplative, so I try for additional incentive.

"Let's make it a competition! We shall range far and wide, taking the most and biggest game we can."

I turn to Father and continue, "Upon our return, the King shall judge which offering is most worthy."

A pause.

"And perhaps you shall deign to grant the bearer of said most worthy offering an equally worthy reward as well, Father?" I ask with my most winsome smile.

A quick glance to my brother and yep he's hooked. The boy loves his shineys almost as much as I do, and it's a hard thing to forego the opportunity to acquire more.

Father meets my smile with a smirk of his own. "So that's your angle then, is it? Not content to keep your Father at home and steal all his sport, you expect him to pay for the privilege as well?" He scratches his beard as his eyes wander over to-

She'll still be there when we're done Father, please focus.

"Very well then, if it gets you two out of my hair for a while, I'll allow it. I'll even find a reward too, have one of these white cloaks root through my kit for something maybe...if your offering is 'worthy' enough, that is!"

"Thank you Father! We won't disappoint! Come on Joff, fetch your weapons and your Hound, let's not waste anymore time!"

A much smaller party than yesterday trotted along a trail two hour's ride from Hayford Castle.

And once again Joff's patience was wearing thin.

"This is taking forever," pouts the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms from atop his chestnut courser. "Why are we doing this?"

"Honestly? Because we both want whatever prize Father will come up with. And we could both stand to kill a few things, it's good for the spirit. You saw Father yesterday, he spears one little buck and he's happy as a clam for the rest of the day."

"That is an odd saying."

"It's Braavosi."

Joff snorts. "And what shall our reward be when we return empty handed?"

"In that case, we can try again another time. We have a very long trip ahead of us, there'll be plenty of opportunities. Besides," I say, adopting an imperious tone and turning my nose up, "Isn't spending time with your beloved elder sister its own reward?"

He actually laughs at that.

I droop in the saddle, aiming a wounded expression at my brother. "That was mean. You've made me sad. I am sad now."

See Joff, this is how you give a proper pout. My pout is _cute_. No one wants to punch _me_ in face when I pout, Joff.

"You are not."

I sit up and my expression smooths out. "I could be a little sad."

"You'll be sad when we spend all day out here and not find a single stag," he grumbles.

"Well if we _do_ find one, do you think you'll be able to hit it with that monster?" I ask, gesturing to his crossbow. It's not _that_ big really, but it is heavy, plus the way Joffrey goes on about it you'd think he's lugging around a hand-held ballista. Not that he complains about the weight, he just likes talk about how absolutely badass the thing is.

"Bah, I could slay a charging knight from a hundred yards with this, easy!" Joffrey boasts.

"Sure, but you're still limited to the three bolts, and Ser Stag might bring friends. Have you gotten the hang of the reload yet?"

"I've been practicing! You see, one has to..." Joff proceeds to chatter on excitedly about his favorite toy, while I make appreciative noises as appropriate.

It's not very difficult to keep my brother's disposition sweet, one just needs to know how to bend with his moods and direct his interests. Managing him is doable. _Influencing_ him though?

Much harder.

Inflexible. That's Joffrey in a nutshell. Apply just a _little_ too much pressure and he'll break and run.

And where does he run to?

Mother.

Hard to blame him. Mother is synonymous with comfort as far as he's concerned, she's an unending font of unconditional love, approval, and support. But it's Mother; nothing good will come of that for anyone, in the long run. Short run looks pretty poor too.

It's why he and Father can't connect I suppose. The inflexibility I mean. Overwhelming force of personality, simply incapable of any subtle adjustment, versus an inflexible will that's too brittle to bend in the face of the oncoming storm.

Joffrey's issues...if Joffrey were _anyone_ else, then he as a person would be a _problem,_ to whatever degree. But he's Joffrey Baratheon, heir to the Iron Throne. He is a _disaster_. Given what's coming down the pipe? _Someone needs to try and fix that_.

The question is then, who?

Father can't connect with him to give effective guidance or grant true approval and Mother drowns any action he takes in praise.

Tommen or Myrcella? At best, inconsequential and at worst, _targets_ , as far as Joff is concerned.

Tywin or Stannis, _maybe_ Ned (perhaps Renly and thus the Tyrells as an insane long-shot?), they might have all the right stuff to take my brother in hand and mold him into something better, or at least give him the tools to be so. But that would require fostering, thus removal from Mother, but then _Mother_ , so I just don't see it happening.

Every other person is simply beneath him due to his status, and Joff sees no compelling reason to heed his lessers.

So that leaves me.

Joff's the heir, but I'm his elder, and thus hold some vague authority over him that's difficult to disregard. I am bigger and stronger than him; I will never be a feasible target for his...activities. Most importantly, I am the person most like Father in his life, but unlike Father, I can _adjust_.

I am very much my father's child, and I thus share in his flaws. But what I _don't_ share is a cloud of grief and old pains and disappointment in life, hanging over me and coloring my thoughts and actions. To Joffrey, getting anything out of Father must seem like a crap shoot. Myself on the other hand? My attention and praise is _achievable_.

On a side note, my sex doesn't seem to even come into the equation; perhaps I should give Mother credit for my brother's acceptance of female role models...? _Eh._

Regardless, it's a difficult line to walk, but walk it I must. I know what would happen in a future without me; how could I not try to avert that written fate?

It's quiet scenes like these that give me hope that the future need not be ruin. Here we are, siblings simply riding through the countryside, a small unobtrusive retinue in tow. A sister nodding along politely as her brother explains the intricate mechanisms of his crossbow. He looks quite happy like this. There is no hint that this young man could ever one day be called "Aerys the Third". Right now, he is only the golden prince that Mother must always see.  
 _  
He's not all bad_ , I lie to myself.

A faint noise on the wind rouses me. I put the thoughts in their box and close it, and hold up a hand for silence. Joffrey's speculation on the merits of having serrations added to his bolts cuts off without question. Doubtless, he favors the possibility of using his weapon rather than talking about it. As the rest of the party comes to a halt, I remain still, listening.

The sound comes again, somewhere to the left of the trail. Nudging my gelding along, I follow the noise, the rest falling in behind me. It repeats intermittently, but as we move forward, I am able to identify the sound.

 _Those are quacks_.

Soon we come to a valley, which appears to contain a small pond at the bottom, surrounded and obscured by tall grass. It looked promising.

Tuning to my brother, I raise a finger to my lips and then point at the pond. Joff eagerly dismounted while I quietly inform the rest of the party that duck season is now open and advise them to be "vewy vewy quiet". Guyard and Sandor are used to my antics by now, though I get some odd looks from a few others. But royalty, so they don't argue.

Unlike Father's preferred tactic of stomping boldly through the woods until he runs across something or the huntsmen flush something to him, I like to stalk game when I can. When, rarely, it's just Joff and I on the hunt (plus the less relevant assorted others), I do my best to find such opportunities.

Joff weirdly _loves_ the idea of sneaking up on critters before dispatching them. It likely stems from the sneaking games we used to play on Ser Boros. Still play actually. Nothing quite like a good, fun jump-scare to start your day.

Or end your day.

Or just whenever.

The man is a wreck.

I hand off my horse to a guardsman and take my bow in one hand and a fistful of arrows in the other, so as not to have them rattling around in the quiver. Can't ever be too sneaky after all. With a nod to the rest of the party, we start creeping our way down into the valley.

* * *

"That is bullshit," I declare, with all the authority that one of my august personage can muster.

What is a goose even doing hanging out with a bunch of ducks?

And yet there it was, thrashing away in the grip of the pages, putting up quite the fight despite the red lacquered bolt pinning a wing to its side.

My declaration goes ignored, sadly, despite the obvious and utter bull before me. Joff is too busy crowing his victory. The pages had returned with my catch as well.

Two whole ducks.

Two!

I know I put a shaft through at least a third's wing, but the little feathered bastard must have decided to wander off with a souvenir. That absurdly fat goose is bigger than four ducks put together. By the Seven, I _suck_. I might as well have thrown hammers at the things.

 _Now there's a thought_.

The pages continue to stand there, grappling with the goose. When I realize that the twits are content to do so indefinitely, I roll my eyes and walk over.

"Give it here."

Grabbing the neck and undamaged wing, I unburden the still-dripping boys, and spare a glare for the Manderly-class goose. Maybe it ate one of my ducks before the pages could find it? Seemed plausible.

The bird offers no answers, struggling mightily against the bolt all the while.

Joffrey's gone oddly quiet.

I glance back at him. Ugh, he's got that look in his eye again. Unpleasant. Although, I suppose I can make a reasonable indulgence here. Make it a teachable moment.

"Hey Joff," I ask casually, "want to learn how to kill a goose?"

A pause. "Learn? Don't you just cut it's throat?"

"You could do that, like with anything else. Or crush it's head, as Father is prone to. Typically with game-birds, the neck is broken if they are not killed outright during the hunt. Geese have a lot of neck though," I gesture with the neck in my hand, receiving a furious honk in return. "Which makes it difficult. But it can be done. Lemme show you."

I set the goose down on the ground, maintaining my grip all the while. Joff moves in closer for a better view, eyes glued to the scene.

"Doubt you'll ever need to use this, we've plenty of hunters and servants and such, but one never knows. The trick is to spin it. You take your strong hand and grab it like so," I instruct, moving my hand to cover the goose's head. "Then you lift and swing it in a circle until it's good and dead. Geese have some strength, so you've got to be quick or it'll beat you with it's wings, which is only funny when it happens to someone else. Watch close now."

I let go with my off-hand and lift and swing. The goose whips around, unable to fight it's own momentum. Once, twice, and a quarter more spins and it goes still with a strangled warble and a soft crunch. Mercy thus distributed, I yank the bolt out of the carcass and hand it over to Joffrey.

The way my brother's bright green eyes _sparkle_ is uniquely uncomfortable.

Joffrey's sadism is as much a part of him as his hair color. I've not found a way to fix it, change it, nor otherwise excise it. Beating it out of him is a non-starter, believe me I've tried, but all that does is encourage him to hide his cruelties. So I try to manage it, try to aim Joff's interests towards acceptable outlets, or failing that, bearable targets.

Just bottling it up isn't healthy, right?

I don't know.

For all that I study and speculate on the cast of characters that has become my family, I am no psychologist.

It's an uphill battle, trying to get Joff to stay behind certain lines. Despite my efforts, Joff still too often manages to do unacceptable _stuff_ , and too often my own temper slips the leash and I remind him that there are _limits_ to my indulgence.

Then he runs to Mother and we have to start all over again.

Thankfully, blessedly, the knowledge of where a few of those lines lie seem to have stuck with my brother. It's the only reason that I can give for why Tommen's fawn is still alive, half grown and living in the Red Keep godswood, rather than it being an _...incident..._ that no one wants to talk about.

I think we managed to stay on the right side of the lines today. Joffrey got to maim a woodland creature, learn a novel and interesting way to kill said creature, and it was all completely socially acceptable. I was able to halt an animal's suffering, earned some points with my brother despite that, and only feel a little gross about pandering to his proclivities.

I'd say today's a win, really.

Though he is staring rather intently at that bloody crossbow bolt.

Gods I hope he doesn't do something weird and horrible with it.

Guyard's been looking on, and he seems a tad uncomfortable.

Well join the freaking club buddy.

Knowing him though, it's likely he takes issue with my instruction, rather than little brother's joygasm. Not the act itself, but rather that it was me doing it. Un-princessly-like conduct or whatever. I'd thought I burnt out all those wide-eyed expectations of his by now.

Put that one back on the to-do list I guess.

Sandor continues to not give a shit, as expected. Dude was made for this job.

I snap my fingers in Joffrey's face, causing him to blink and hopefully forget whatever he'd been contemplating.

"Let's head back. Father can judge our catch and we can have it prepared before dinner starts. Maybe bag something else on the way."

Joff nods and we head back up the slope, starting up a debate over the exact definition of "most and biggest".

The huntsmen rejoin us with their catch as we remount. The hunters that the King employs are old hands, long used to noble folk making a mess of things. While Joff and I had been lurking about in the grass, they had deployed to take advantage of the game fleeing our ambush. They'd scored a fair haul of ducks themselves. Sadly none with black and yellow arrows poking out of them for me to claim. On the bright side, now I don't have to worry about sharing.

I'm all about silver linings.

* * *

The King is in the castle yard when we return, the household knights seeming to be engaged in a group spar/impromptu melee. Father's standing with a few other spectators, booming laughter filling the courtyard with good humor. Looks like someone had a nice nooner.

I poke Joffrey, then raised my ducks high (I wanted to directly present the catch to Father, Joff wanted a servant to do it, I blathered something about honor and pride and ancestors, there was some whining and browbeating and shoving of dead birds at one another and who cares I won) while he hefted his goose.

"Father!" I cry, channeling my inner ham. "Your children have spilt blood this day! We come to seek your judgment!"

Father turns to me, appears momentarily confused about what the hell we're even doing there, then glances at my catch and scoffs. Rude. He's getting a pout.

He gives Joff's corpulent catch a more considering look. "Well, that's certainly a big one," he concedes.

Joffrey beams.

Then Father thinks he's had a clever thought and with a grin asks, "So you mean to be a goose then, eh?"

And now Joff looks confused and crestfallen.

Dammit Father.

"No more than you mean to be a barrel of wine," I grouse, pout still firmly affixed.

A snerk, quickly strangled, slips out from behind me. Thank you Guyard.

Father's expression tells me he doesn't know whether he should laugh or be offended at my snark.

"Just tell us who won already!" I prod, hands on hips, ducks still dangling from my grip.

 _Just pat him on the head and tell him 'he done good' already!_

I may be feeling slightly fed up.

"Well it wasn't you."

I twitched, violently.

Father chortled in response.

He's earned himself another pout.

"Alright then, alright, put that face away." He clears his throat and continues, "I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the etcetera, hereby declare that my son, Prince Joffrey Baratheon, is the winner of this competition."

And Joff beams once more.

"It's appropriate you should win too, considering the reward! Greenfield! The...uh..." He snaps his fingers a couple of times as he works through the sudden brain-fart. "The...um...the thing!"

The Kingsguard in question slaps a small sheathed blade into his liege's palm.

"The dagger! Yes, appropriate I'd say, won it at your nameday tourney in fact! The only knife I ever use is one Jon Arryn gave me as a boy in the Vale. About your age I was, maybe younger, so you should have one too! Might be a bit long now, but you'll grow into it. Careful now, it's sharp!"

I lean over for a look as Joff promptly snatches up the blade and unsheathes it, a memory tugging at my mind. It's a single-edged blade, perhaps ten inches long, colored a familiar smokey grey-

Aw hell, that's the catspaw dagger isn't it?

Yep, it's even got the same tacky-looking handle as the prop in the show. Dammit. What does this even-

No.

It's a long, long way to Winterfell and I'll have plenty of time to work out the implications in the meantime. For the rest of the day I'll keep my worries limited to how best to eat two whole ducks.

A yelp of pain from Joffrey.

"I said it was sharp!"

I turn and throw the ducks at the nearest target. Ignoring the offended squawking of a crow, I march into the keep to track down Qyburn.

 _Gods_ , these people are exhausting.

* * *

The royal convoy rolls in the next afternoon, likely setting a speed record in packing for the multi-month trip across half the length of the continent. Uncle Renly certainly looks worn and weary. Mother, as usual, appears appropriately regal, perfectly unaffected by such petty concerns as mere weariness.

Before she can wind up and let Father know how she _really_ feels, the King, known throughout the land for his great and terrible willingness to impose on the hospitality of his subjects, proclaims that he simply _cannot_ impose on the good Lady Hayford for a single moment more. There are still good hours of daylight yet left, he insists, and plenty of places to camp.

Mother's screeching over having to spend the night on the side of the road, wheelhouse or no, should distract her from noticing Joff's new stitches for a few hours at least.

Father informs Renly that he and Stannis are in charge of the capital while he's gone, and charges Ser Barristen to guard them. The old knight swears to do so with the same dedication that he gives his King. Father making the Lord Commander also swear to fairly judge any slap fights that his brothers inevitably get into was excessive. That's what the look on Uncle Renly's face seemed to state anyways.

And so, our journey to the North began in earnest.


	4. Stops Along the Kingsroad: Road to Darry

"The Smiling Storm?"

"Too similar to Lyonel the Laughing Storm. I need _originality_."

"The Thundering Storm? You can be quite loud."

"Better, but storms already thunder, yes? Something else that sets me apart from every other little stormcloud is necessary, I think."

"Perhaps we should move away from storms?"

"It may be for the best. Every good storm-themed name has likely been taken by one stormlord or another."

"Then we've exhausted all options that would honor your father's house."

"Really? We haven't discussed anything having to do with stags-"

"Stags are male deer, Roslin, _male_. I freely admit that I am hardly the most feminine maiden in the Seven Kingdoms, but even I wouldn't go around calling myself, specifically, a stag of any sort. The implications of such an epitaph would be most unfortunate."

I grimaced at the thought. The idea was to acquire a _better_ nickname, not try to top my current alias in sheer irritation.

"Then what about a doe?"

"Do you look on me and think 'doe'?" I raised my arms and flexed. "Do these look like the arms of a doe to you?"

"But...," Roslin's face scrunched up in confusion. "...a doe does not have arms?"

"Do not worry yourself overmuch Lady Frey. Her Grace tends to worry not about such fine details as sense and coherence. I find it best to simply nod and smile politely in situations such as these."

"You know what I meant," I mutter as I put my arms down.

I return the subsequent nod and polite smile a withering glare.

"Perhaps Alysanne the Addled then?" Roslin asked with a small smile.

Betrayed, I turned a wounded look on the little Frey. "Why are you ganging up on me? You're supposed to say nice things to me in an attempt to curry favor. That's how this whole lady-in-waiting thing is supposed to work. You're doing it _wrong_."

"I think it's quite nice actually, the alliteration helps make for a memorable title, which is what you seek, isn't it Your Grace?" Commented the Reacher bastard thoughtfully.

Her lips twitched upward. "It certainly sounds better than Robert-Wi-"

"Finish that sentence and you can walk Lynesse. You can walk all the way to Winterfell." I warned flatly. "There's some alliteration for you. You can write a song along the way."

"Um, what about your Mother's house?" Roslin suggested uncertainly, glancing between Lynesse and I. "Perhaps you can find inspiration in the lion of Lannister?"

Roslin still wasn't quite sure what to make of me I suppose. Though, were I in her shoes, I'd be a bit gun-shy myself. The line between bantering and a royal order to get the fuck out of the carriage must be a fine one for the uninitiated to perceive.

Eh, she'll learn.

She's doing quite well already, took no time for her to pick up that I don't care to hear any gushing over Mother. Couldn't really blame her if she did though, fangirliing over the Queen is a pretty universal thing for the courtly types to do. Plus Mother's the reason she's got this gig, so there's that too.

The chain of events that had lead Roslin Frey to sitting across from me in a North-bound carriage started at my brother's name day tourney, not long before Grandpa Jon's death. Walder Frey was in attendance with a number of his brood, and I recalled a detail from canon, that Jon would shoot down an exchange of foster-lings with the old weasel.

Still don't know whether Sweetrobin's fostering was ever on the table, it makes the most sense as a motive if Lysa dosed Jon like in canon. A servant coming along for the trip North had brought with him my requested list, and Maester Malleon's book with the very long title was not on it. So another point towards the Incestigation not being in play, but I'd still like more definite proof before discarding the possibility altogether.

Yes, I know I'm asking for a lot in proving a negative, but whatever. Call me greedy.

Anyways.

Fostering or no, the Late Lord being there gave me the opportunity to acquire Olyvar. There were plenty of boys and young men to be found for the job, but canon noted that Olyvar Frey was remarkably adept at squiring.

Let it never be said that I don't do anything nice for my shield.

I also figured that if he's got someone to carry _his_ shit, I shouldn't hear anymore complaints about carrying _my_ shit.

Unearned foreknowledge in hand, I had floated the idea to Grandpa Jon. My sworn shield had a need and I had heard that Ser Perwyn, who had ridden fairly in the tourney, had a brother the right age for it. I had left it there, couldn't be too pushy with Jon, and took a wait and see approach. If the fostering offer was made by Frey and declined as per canon, the squiring gig could be readily offered to smooth over any ruffled feathers. Turned out someone liked my idea, but thought it could be _even better_.

I had missed them on our brief return from the Westerlands, but when the convoy caught up to us at Hayford, I was quite surprised to find half the Frey-Rosby line waiting for me. I don't have all the details, but somehow Mother had gotten wind of my idea and pounced on Jon, something about strengthening family ties, so now Guyard's got his squire, I've got my own court lady, and Perwyn's hanging around too. He's riding around here somewhere right now on security detail.

Not sure what angle Mother's working, but Walder Frey's probably got his eye on Rosby, what with sending all his free agents from that branch. The Old Falcon probably saw a lever to be used in his schemes. Makes sense, The Cougher's been hacking out his lungs all over court for years now, and he's too terrified of Qyburn to allow him to examine his condition.

Which is bullshit, because he doesn't _know_ Qyburn enough to be justifiably terrified of him.

Regardless of what was going on in the background, the Freys I've picked up were all good eggs according to the books, and that seemed to bear out in actuality. Especially Roslin; despite her being my polar opposite in just about every way, she's made for pleasant company over the past fortnight. She's got this very sweet, gentle demeanor that will take some time to wear the edges off of, so that'll give me something to do on my off hours.

What? Guyard turned out fine.

And she is cute as a button. Slender build, long brown hair and big, big doe eyes, Roslin's like a little deer. A very small deer. Like, oh my gosh, she's so _tiny_. I must have more than a foot on her in height.

Yes, she is a tiny little porcaline deer.

I could pick her up and tuck her up under my arm and stoll around with her like an accessory.

 _Good afternoon Lady Stokeworth, how are you? Oh, I see you've noticed my travel-Frey, yes they're very fashionable right now, you should pick one up yourself before Autumn or all of the good ones will be gone!  
_  
Silly thoughts.

Where was I?

Right, lions.

"A lion is male as well, though not as inherently so as a stag," I replied. "Still, were I to go in that direction, _lioness_ would be the proper term. However, there is only _one_ true lioness in the family, and all others would be judged in all aspects against her."

I slump in my seat. "Do you see any of the Queen in me at all?" I ask, waving a hand up and down to indicate my long frame.

"Just a bit," interjects the Reacher woman.

I raised an eyebrow in question.

Lynesse smiles and taps her own face.

"The cheekbones."

I snort at that. _Flatterer_.

I grin and give her finger-guns. "And that's why you're my favorite, Lyn. Your previous transgressions are hereby forgiven until you inevitably commit them once more."

Ignoring the smile and nod I'm getting from Roslin, I put the guns away.

"No, I don't think I'd like to go down that route. Fearsome though a lioness may be, I am not one to sink and sharpen claws. I am more of a, hmm, bash and thrash kind of princess. It's a shame my house's sigil features no tumbling boulders. Aly the Avalanche has quite a nice ring to it."

"A great tragedy indeed, Your Grace."

"Quite."

"Then, where else might we look for a title for you?" Roslin asks, finding her footing once more.

I chew my lip in thought.

"There must be an element of myself in the moniker. My house, my sigil, my appearance, traits and skills. The title must be such that one can hear it and know, without a shred of doubt, that it can only refer to the one and only Alysanne Baratheon."

"Well, if we are to consider your skills, you have a lovely singing voice."

Roslin gets a smile and finger-gun of her own. "See? Compliments and nice things. That's the way to do it."

Yeah she's still pretty confused by my gesturing. But again, she's new.

"But I think not," I say, putting my hand down before she starts nodding again.

"Though I am a fair singer-" And wasn't _that_ a nice little perk in this life? Baratheons ain't just for bellowing ya know. We've got great pipes. "-I remain only fair. To give myself the title of Singer would be too arrogant, even for me, when one takes into account all those more skilled."

"I'll leave the songs to the Flowers," I conclude with a nod to Lyn.

A pause as I tap my chin in thought.

"Although," I mutter, considering. "I could get away with it were I clever. I could be Alysanne the Steelsinger. My greatest strength is in my skill at arms, and the song of steel is one I'll never forget the tune of. Though the name celebrates my martial skill, it is a reference to my vocal ability as well."

"But didn't you say you've never fought anyone before?"

"I've fought plenty!" I say defensively. "Though yes, those fights were only in the training yards of the Red Keep or such similar venues. To hear the veterans tell it, such training is only the palest of imitations compared to actual combat."

 _Of course they probably haven't been smacked around the yard by Selmy_ _lately_ , I think with a slight shiver.

"And though I've split plenty of blood in the Kingswood, hunting game is hardly a trial comparable with facing a man in a mortal contest."

 _Though that incident with Henery..._

 ** _No_** , I resolve, _that whole mess is staying in it's box_.

My hand absently drifts to the side of my head.

My companions are staring at me.

Shake head, clear throat, move on.

"So I don't think Steelsinger is a good choice, at least not yet. Titles emphasizing potency in battle are best granted after one proves themselves. If I take such a name prematurely, and am crushed the first time I take the field? I've no desire to be knocked off my pedestal before ever ascending it. It'd be worse than never having a title at all! I wouldn't be Steelsinger, I'd be Baratheon the Blowhard!"

"Or Aly the Awful," quipped Lynesse.

"Are you certain you're a bard?" I deadpan, "Truly, you must be some foreign god of wit and art given flesh. Your words paint such wondrous and colorful pictures."

Spending my goodwill on such disrespect so soon after being forgiven? _Reachers_.

"Oh, color!"

I respond eloquently, "Huh?"

"What do you mean Lady Roslin?" Lynesse asked, similarly confused.

"My family is quite, um, large and many of my relations are named in honor of my father, Lord Walder." Roslin explains, "With so many Walders, it can be quite confusing, so some of them have extra names to help tell one apart from another, like Big Walder and Little Walder. My grandnephew from my father's first wife is known as Black Walder."

"He is...an unpleasant man. But his title is simple, it lets others know to be wary of him, and is easily memorable," continues the Frey maiden. "To name yourself by a color may be the way to go, although I think you would be something brighter than Black."

"Yes, I am quite the ray of sunshine aren't I?" I muse, thinking of a certain crow and the future he once might have had.

"Blue, perhaps?" The bard ponders. "It would go well with Baratheon, and it would match your eyes."

"Hmph, or maybe Aly the Aqua. Blue is too closely associated with melancholy in my mind, it's not a trait that I'd like to be identified with. I am a very fun person after all, wouldn't do to falsely advertise."

"Then let me preemptively strike down Brown from your choices. It you choose a color as a name, then you should wear that color, I think. If you should become The Brown Baratheon, then I imagine you one day walking onto the field of battle, clad in brown plate, and then all my mind can think of is that joke about brown pants..."

That earns a round of giggles. Lyn grants her audience a slight bow for our recognition of her wit.

"I agree, Brown shall henceforth be struck from consideration," I say, once I've got the chuckles out of my system. "Though I think dear Roslin was too quick to dismiss Black. The color could be an appropriate name for those of foul tempers and harsh looks, but it need not be only that."

"Black is mystery, cloaking what it colors in intrigue and interest. Fearsome and intimidating as well, a charging knight clad in Black is like to be as powerful a sight as a thunderhead, spewing lightning as it rolls forth. There's perhaps as much awe in that darkness as in the opposing White knight's light. There's some definite potential in Black."

"Doesn't that repeat your earlier concerns?" Roslin argues. "If you take such a fearsome title now, don't you then risk being proven false later?"

"I suppose you're right, I should prove myself Black _before_ taking the name. I've no great deeds to my name, and my disposition is far sweeter than your kin's. My temper can tower, true, but it tends to burn hot and quick, I'm not prone to the smouldering embers that Black evokes."

"But again, I could try to be sly," I state thoughtfully. "I certainly wouldn't mind being known far and wide for my best feature."

I flick a braid over my shoulder.

Thank you for the titters ladies, you are too kind.

"But I believe we've trod this topic enough for one afternoon. Lyn, my dear Flower, if you could help us to pass the time with a song?"

"It's what I'm paid for."

"That's the spirit!"

Adjusting the lute she had been absently plucking the strings of all the while, the bard starts to play a tune, and after a moment begins to sing.

 _As I came down through Oldtown City  
At the hour of th' wolf at night  
Who should I spy but a Northern lady  
Washing her feet by the candlelight_

Roslin herself had some talent for music, and was very interested to hear the new song, much like all the others Lynesse Flowers had played over the course of the trip. I wasn't too surprised that much of our stuff hadn't made it to the Twins yet. These days, I'm floored when something can make it out past the doorway of Songbird Hall. One of my early successes in actively shaping Martin's world had since turned into a den of indolence and debauchery.

To be fair, the Hall has always been a shabby little hole for assorted bards and minstrils to basically just jam out at, but they've _really_ been stretching the definition of "musical experimentation" lately. Which is upsetting; I worked hard on that mission statement. I swear, if it wasn't for my frequent visits, complete with heavily armed guards, they might just stop wearing pants altogether.

 _Some people_ (*cough*Stannis*cough*), might say that such deviant behavior is only to be expected from giving people of so little responsibility and personal worth a royal stipend to abuse. Not saying that _some people_ are necessarily wrong, but _some people_ also have Strong Opinions on Fun, and so _some people_ 's opinions are often given little weight.

Personally, I blame Tyrion.

[Somewhere, in a wheelhouse perhaps, a beautiful woman with golden hair unconsiously nods in agreement.]

Speaking of my shortest uncle, I hadn't seen him lately. I'm pretty sure Uncle Jamie would have made certain that we don't just leave him behind in one whorehouse or another. Perhaps he's scouting ahead for Father? Quality assurance and all, can't have anything but the best for the King, yes?

Gross thoughts.

Moving on.

A band of uniform red clad soldiers ride past, a few more in assorted colors and mixed armors trailing behind. The convoy had left King's landing with approximately two hundred people all told, and had swelled up a fair bit further along the way. Random hedge knights attached themselves to guard patrols, travelling merchants lingered in our wake for added protection and sales opportunities, and a number of higher born folk come and go as we travel along, just to say they rode with the King for a time. Lots of moss this rolling stone has picked up.

The rolling stone of course being represented by the wheelhouse. Located at the center of the formation, it dictated the pace of the rest of the caravan. It hadn't broken down yet, so it wasn't slowing our overall propgress _too_ bad. It will though, I don't see how anything I've done in this life could have butterlied additional structural integrity into any part of that thing. The Kingsroad was still in good repair this far into the Riverlands, so that's helping our speed along. We should make Darry by nightfall going by passing chatter.

Slow ride's no bother to me though. Nothing's on fire, metaphorically or otherwise, and my plans are effectively on hold until whenever we arrive at Winterfell. Nothing stopping me from just enjoying the ride while the roads are still decent.

Who's ride was this anyways?

It's got the right colors and is covered in stags, so that narrows it down. I hadn't seen it before though. But it wasn't new. The paint was though. Hmm.

Idle thoughts.

Lynesse had since finished up with the first song and is now absoloutely killing a near-flawless rendition of _Duvet_. I didn't even have to adjust any lyrics for that one. Too mournful for the light mood perhaps, but she knows I like it, and my spirits won't dampen so easily. Roslin seemed entranced either way. I should request something more upbeat for the next set though.

 _Take Me Home, County Roads_?

Yes.

It had been a _chore_ to re-work the geography in that song, so I'll be damned if I don't take every chance I can to make Lyn play it for me.

The black and gold carriage continued to roll down the road, the melody of John Denver's carefully butchered hit drifting along with it. About as peaceful a scene one can get in Westeros. With any luck, the return trip will be just as pleasant.


	5. Stops Along the Kingsroad: CrossroadsInn

The Littlest Lioness  
Myrcella Baratheon

Mother was getting upset.

Her ladies didn't seem to notice, but I could tell.

When she spoke her words would be shorter, a little faster. She would breath deeply through her nose. Sometimes, she would squeeze her hands really hard, then let go.

Sometimes her hands would shake when they let go.

Mostly it was her face. Mother made a certain face when she called on her ladies, or when at court. She would make her face still, like the stone pond in my garden, when no birds were there to bathe. She was careful to make sure she only looked like the Queen, and not Mother.

She didn't frown when she was being the Queen. Well, not unless she was _really_ upset.

But when she was being the Queen and got upset, her still face seemed to freeze. It would smooth out, like a mask.

She told one of her ladies to go outside and see if Father was back yet. When she came back, the lady said that the guards still hadn't heard anything.

Mother's face got smoother.

Father hadn't sat with us to break his fast. Afterwards, we had gone back to the wheelhouse, along with those ladies that Mother had invited to sit with us during the day's travel.

But then nothing happened for a while.

Mother had asked the guards why we weren't moving, and they said that the King hadn't ordered the party to move on yet. He couldn't answer why then Mother asked him. And he couldn't answer where Father was either.

Which was strange, because the guards always seemed to know where Father was. _I_ usually knew where Father was. He was very loud.

Why didn't they just follow the noise?

Mother had sent the guard to look for him. It had been a while now, and the remaining guards didn't have any news.

Maybe Father was looking for Uncle Tyrion? I hadn't seen him in several days.

Father couldn't just be sleeping. Someone would have woken him by now.

Maybe he was having a bad day?

Aly says that Father has bad days and good days. She once told me that he got hurt a lot before I was born, when he fought in the Rebellion, and sometimes the wounds would start hurting again.

He didn't look like he was wounded.

She said it wasn't like Sandor Clegane's burns, where everyone could see. She said that Father was wounded inside instead.

I said I understood, but not really. Aly usually knew what she was talking about. But how was he wounded inside and not outside?

Maybe he had broken something?

Perhaps I didn't understand because I don't see him on his bad days? Father's always seems to be smiling and loud and laughing when I see him. Sometimes his loudness turns sour and angry though. But most of the time it looks like he's having a good day.

When I don't see Aly, I usually don't see Father that day either. She might be helping him like she helps Joff. Now _Joff_ definitely has bad days.

More like Joff makes _other_ people have bad days.

I can't imagine Father having a bad day like Joff having a bad day. But I wouldn't want to see him if he did though.

There's a thump against the side of the wheelhouse.

"Princess Alysanne here to see you, Your Grace," comes a muffled voice from outside the door.

As the door opened, I could hear a faint mutter.

"Doing your job like you're supposed to _now_ isn't going to save any of you after this morning's shit-show, ya know."

I smiled at that. Aly doesn't like me to hear bad words.

Which is funny given how often she says them.

I'll save that one for later.

Sticking her head in the door, my sister not quite shouts, "Greetings, my royal family!"

"There you are. Have you seen Father? I was about to send my Hound out to track him down," Joffrey says, looking up from the cushion he had been sprawled out on.

"Better a guard Hound than a hunting Hound, I think that one is. Though you could very fittingly call him a blood Hound, but that'd just be confusing to the less clever ones."

"Aly!"

"Tom- _oof!"_

Tommen had dropped his book and sprung up to run right into our sister, wrapping his arms around her middle.

Aly calls him a "hugger".

"Glad to see you too, buddy. Been a long while since breakfast hasn't it?" Aly chuckled, rubbing her hand over the top of Tommen's head.

My elder sister doesn't seem to have a favorite sibling. She likes to spend time with all of us, even Joffrey, though she usually takes him elsewhere. But she is certainly Tommen's favorite. It's probably due to her spending so much time with Joff; that way he has less time to spend with Tom.

And Aly is the only one that will _make_ Joff stop when he's having a bad day.

Even Mother isn't as good; she can stop him, but she's more likely to hold Tommen after and kiss his tears away rather than prevent them in the first place.

"Where did you go?" Tommen asks, looking up at Aly.

"Here and there, to and fro, you know how it goes. I'm just a big, busy bee. Crows need watering, stoats need wrangling, Ba-"

"Alysanne."

Aly stills, leaving Tom half-untangled from her.

"Yes, Mother?" Aly asks with a smile.

My sister makes lots of faces. Most of the time they're smiles. Like Uncle Jaime, but not. Her smiles are wider. But they both have lots of different smiles. Sometimes she'll give certain people one smile more than others. The smiles she gives me are always bright and warm.

The smiles she gives Mother usually seem stiff.

"Have you seen your father? Do you know why we haven't moved on yet?"

That's a wince.

"Yes. He's been doing some...surveying. Apparently there was a miscommunication among the guard patrols, so his plans were not relayed adequately. That error is being remedied as we speak."

The wince had turned into more of a snarl. Aly was practically biting out the words at the end.

"So we shall be moving on soon, then?"

The wince was back.

"Um, the surveying, is, ah, a work in progress. It may take, perhaps, several more hours to complete?"

Mother's hands were squeezing.

"But it's okay! Uncle Jaime's helping him!"

Why does Mother look so confused? It's Uncle's job to help Father.

It's all of our uncles' job to help him, come to think of it.

At least her hands aren't squeezing any more.

"Jaime's...helping?"

"Yep. Helping." My sister nods vigorously.

Mother's face smooths once more.

"How so?" The Queen asks, eyes narrowed.

"He's...they're um, talking."

Confused again.

"What?"

"They're talking. Talking about, uh, men stuff, manly things, nothing I know anything about really. Manly survey stuff. Man-veying."

Mother closes her eyes, tightly. Is she having a headache?

Aly sighs, "Uncle Jaime said that he could help things along, and thinks that we'll be able to start moving the convoy around noon. There didn't seem to be anything else I could do, so I came back here."

"I see," the Queen replies, opening her eyes, expression stilling. "Will you be joining us then?"

She gestures to the ladies that were riding with us today.

"Actually, I was thinking I'd tell my siblings a story while we wait?"

Oh, a story!

Aly has _lots_ of stories, and they're all so interesting! Some are actually pretty strange, but they're really good! She once told me that she dreamed them all, but made me promise not to tell anyone. Even Joff enjoys Aly's stories; he never bothers anyone during story time.

The Queen's face slips a tiny bit, lips twitching downwards.

Does Mother not want to hear the story? They do tend to be a lot different from the ones she tells us. I hope she doesn't forbid Aly from telling her tale.

Joff is the first to speak up. "Wonderful, that would be a fine way to pass the time! May we hear it, Mother?"

"Please Mother!" Tommen pleads, still hanging off of his eldest sister.

I say nothing, instead begging my mother with my eyes alone.

She stares back at me, silent.

 _It's such a strange sight_ , I think, _to see the Queen's beautiful face, composed and serene, beneath that snarling lion on her brow_.

Everyone tells me that I look just like Mother. I wonder if, one day, I'll be making the same face that's staring back at me right now.

Will I have a crown as well?

The Queen's face breaks briefly, and Mother gives me a small smile.

"Take your sister and brothers back to the inn. Have them seated around the hearth, there is a chill in the air." The Queen orders as she turns back to my sister. "Take adequate guards for your siblings."

"Of course, I'll have Ser Guyard see to the detail," Aly says with a nod. "I'll have him collect an escort of household knights as well."

I pick myself up off of my seat and Joff does the same, Aly poking her head outside to hiss instructions at her shield. Tommen runs back over to Mother to give her a hug goodbye, to the giggles of her ladies.

"Alysanne," The Queen calls, and my sister turns her head back from the door. "Send your bard here as well, I should like some singing to entertain my entourage while we await the King's return."

I didn't know what face flickered across my sister's features, but it looked complicated.

"Lynesse would love to. I'll have her attend you shortly," Aly replies, her smile a little different than before.

Soon, we are all seated around the inn's hearth, a dozen red cloaks posted across the common room. Armored knights sat at tables, some with small beers in hand, a barrier between us and the rest of the patrons. Curious smallfolk looked on, but stayed away from the shield wall painted with stags and lions, towers and unicorns and spirals.

The wall parts only for the innkeeper bearing a tray of sweet cakes.

"Let's see...what story shall we tell today?" Aly mutters as she picks pieces off her cake. "It should be a fairly long tale, we'll most likely have an hour or two. The ring and the fellowship? Too long. The iron giant? Perhaps a bit too sad at the end. The scissor sisters? No, still need to refine that into something palatable. And sensible."

She's just speaking to herself, not really paying attention to anyone. Sometimes I think that she likes to hear herself talk.

I suppose that makes her a "talker", then?

"Why not tell us the one about the burrowing serpents?" Joffrey asks, eyes bright.

My sister snorts. "That's not a very good one. Besides, I told it to you on the way back from the Rock; stories told too frequently lose their impact, their potency. Allow some dust to settle before requesting that one again, please."

"Arfur's knifhs!" Tommen shouts around a mouthful of pastry.

"Those you have _definitely_ heard recently. I have a few more, but at this rate you'll have heard them all before the year's out, Tom-Tom."

I consider my own request before asking, "What about the foreign knight and his battle against the warriors from Yi-Ti? You haven't told it in some time."

"That _is_ a good one," Aly accedes. "One of my favorites really. But it's a bit short for the time we have, I think.

"No, all these requests for tales I've already told makes me think of another. It's a bit long itself, but there's plenty of good stopping points, should time run short. I've told it to you before, Joff, but you may not remember it well all these years past. You two," she points at myself and Tommen, "were just babies at the time, so this should be entirely new to you both.

"This will be one of my best stories, because it _is_ one of the best stories, so pay attention!"

Finishing off her cake, Aly claps her hands clean and clears her throat before beginning:

"A long time ago, far, far across the Sunset Sea, there was a great land, twice as wide as Essos and a hundred times the length. The land was made up of many kingdoms, great and small. These lands were not unlike our own, but where we have Seven Kingdoms, the great wide land of Galaxy had a hundred hundred kingdoms!" Aly spoke, spreading her arms wide, a vain attempt to express the size of such an enormous land.

Aly's already getting into her story. She moves her hands as she speaks, motions shifting in time with her tone. Sometimes she'll do that even without a story to tell, talking with her hands. Her face for stories likewise shifts around with the tale she's telling. But mostly, it looks like she's looking far away, as if she's remembering something. Which makes sense, since she's recalling a dream.

"Each of these kingdoms had a king, and they warred among one another, not unlike how the kingdoms of Westeros did in the days before the Conqueror," she continued. "And likewise, these lands eventually stopped warring so much, but not by bending knee to a man on a dragon. The kings came together, to form a league, where they agreed that no king would be greater than another, and the great land of Galaxy would be ruled by the collective will of all its many kings.

"A strange notion perhaps. It wasn't easy to get so many kings to agree on what to have for dinner, let alone how to govern all of Galaxy. It was hard, and there was friction and strife, and not everyone was happy, but it was theirs. Despite their problems, the kingdoms of Galaxy carried on together, united for thousands of years like this. They did not do this alone, however.

"There was a great order of knights that was spread across all the lands of Galaxy. Their purpose was to aid all in need, and to maintain peace throughout the kingdoms. They were beholden to no single king, but to all people in Galaxy. And these knights were _mighty_ , each a Sword of the Morning themselves and more, each capable of facing down scores of lesser warriors on their own, each wielding a blazing blade of light.

"What made these knights so strong, so special, you might ask? Truth be told, there was only one simple difference that set them apart from others. That difference?"

Aly taps her ear.

"They could hear the song."

"What song?" Tommen asks, eyes wide.

" _The_ song. It wasn't like any song that you might have heard sung by a singer before. This song, it was the song of all things, of all there has been and ever will be. We are all different notes of that same song. You, me, this inn, even the sweet cakes we just ate. The song binds and connects all, flowing through every person, every rock and tree and bird, _everything_.

"And if you could hear the song? Then you could wield it to your own tune.

"Those knights, the Order of Jedi, could do so. In battle, they could hear the song and know where their foes would strike, from an entire army marching to a single swipe of a blade, it was all the same to the Jedi. The Jedi could swing their blades of light in harmony with the song, playing a perfect melody that would let them cut down any enemy. Even a blind Jedi, if strong in the song, could best most any opponent.

"But this isn't a story about that stalwart order of Jedi knights, for they kept Galaxy at peace, and a peaceful tale is not a very interesting one to tell.

"Once, there was a man who lived in Galaxy, who looked upon the many kings and coveted all which they ruled. Hardly unique, as many greedy men have lived and will live, but this man?

"He could hear the song as well.

"And he was _hideously_ strong in the song. Clever and insidious, the man schemed and strategized, and set the kingdoms against one another in war not seen for ages past. The man twisted the song itself into a mournful dirge, and set a plan in motion that would see the kings slain and the Jedi destroyed.

"Such was the man's strength and cunning, that he succeeded in full, and the kings all fell in that war. The Jedi were destroyed, nearly each of those great knights slain, many at the hands of the man's champion, another warrior of the song, clad in shining dark armor, with heavy breath and a burning red sword. With all who could oppose him gone, the man crowned himself the high king, the Emperor, of all of Galaxy. And the people of Galaxy would _weep_ under the Emperor's tyrannical reign.

"But this isn't the story of the fall of the Jedi and the rise of the Emperor either."

A pause.

"Actually," Aly says, frowning. "That story's kind of dumb."

She shakes her head, "Never mind that."

"Now! I've told you all of this in order to set the stage for the real story! For you see, when all seemed bleak and dark under the merciless rule of the Emperor, a single spark was found in the ashes left by war. It was a spark of hope, one that the Emperor hadn't accounted for in his schemes. This is the story of that new hope, of how the spark would grow into a light brighter than any had ever seen before..."

* * *

 _Earlier..._

Aly

"How long has he been standing there?" I asked with a grimace.

"He got here just as the sun was coming up," was the weary reply from Ser Preston, deep bags under his eyes.

"And how did he come to be here?" Uncle Jaime queried.

"Like I was telling you," the Kingsguard said with tired irritation. "I was standing outside his door, like I had been, _all night-_ "

"I honestly never would have guessed."

Ser Preston glared at the Smirking Lion. " _All_. _Night_. Then all of a sudden, I hear a great mess of shouting and growling and thumping around coming from the King's room. I don't get any answer when I ask what's wrong, and before I can even get the door open, the King's barreling past me, hammer in hand, looking fit to kill.

"It's all I can do to rouse Ser Mandon before the King's gotten on his damn horse and rode off," continued the Greenfield knight. "We chase after, catch up to him here, and by then he's already dismounted and pacing back and forth like a caged dog. Eventually he settles down and he just stands there, glaring at the water like he is now."

A disgusted sigh.

"Nothing I say seems to get to him, and I'm not gonna get my head stove in trying to shake him out of it."

Father certainly looked like he just rolled out of bed. Only stopped to grab his hammer and cloak. He wasn't even wearing shoes.

"And no one _noticed_ the King taking an early morning ride in his bedclothes?" Uncle Jaime sounded as incredulous as I felt at the situation.

"The pickets must have been leaning on their spears, catching a nap before shift change." Ser Preston spits. "Useless bloody cunts."

Gross incompetence of soon-to-be-dead guards aside, that still doesn't explain why Father's out here.

There had been nothing to indicate anything like this behavior yesterday. True, we should have traveled farther by now, but Ser Raymun must have done _something_ to tick the old man off, because Father had started calling for more and more people from the convoy to come and break their fast with him. The hall at Darry had ended up packed with nearly the entire convoy, from nobles all the way down to the merest servants, and the morning meal turned into a party lasting over half a day.

It was a tactic Father enjoyed employing every now and then, simultaneously showing his "generosity" to his subjects while rapidly draining the stocks of whichever poor bastard that had pushed one of the King's buttons at the time, inadvertently or otherwise. Darry's poor cooks must have had an awful day, putting on a royal-level feed for hundreds on zero notice.

It was a pretty good party though.

But we spent so much time at Darry that it was an hour past dark when the wheelhouse finally rolled up to the inn at the crossroads. Father had been fine. No signs of, well, _this_.

Then again, considering the location...

"Did he say anything at all, Ser Preston?" I ask. "Was there anything that you could make out through his door when all of this started?"

"Hard to say," The white cloak answered, scratching his chin. "But I think I heard him say 'dragons' before he all but ran me down on his way out."

 _Damn_ , I thought. _That'll do it_.

"Do you think that's where...?" I trail off, nodding to Father, whose gaze was fixed on a point in the Ruby Ford.

"Beats me," Ser Preston shrugs. "I rode with Lord Tywin's host. Only action I saw was at King's Landing."

"Why not ask the one that was actually here at the time?" Uncle Jaime suggests, nodding to the remaining Kingsguard. "Well, the one that's responsive anyway. Or more responsive at least. Maybe."

I raised an eyebrow at Ser Mandon.

The dead-eyed man just looked at me, motionless.

 _Creepy fuck_.

"Ser Mandon," I politely asked, "Do you know if this is where the King fought at the Battle of the Trident?"

The white clad corpse mechanically swiveled his head back and forth, scanning the banks around the flowing river. After a few moments, he raises an arm, pointing to the east.

"I was with Corbray's charge," he says in a monotone, "Cut through the Dornish. Baratheon forces were to our right."

He looks back towards his King. "Seems about right."

All I can do is frown and turn back towards my father after Moore's uncharacteristic outpouring of emotion. Father remains standing and staring, hammer clutched in a white-knuckle grip.

 _How many times have you killed Rhaegar today, Father?_

Uncle Jaime had a more pertinent question in mind.

"Why did you send Moore back to find me?" Jaime asks, genuinely curious. "You seem ready to collapse."

"Because," Ser Preston grits out, "I have no idea what the _fuck_ the King is doing, and I didn't want to go looking for you when, for all I know, he might just take a walk into the damn river and _lie down_ as soon as I turn my back."

"He is _not_ -" I began to growl.

"But could not Ser Mandon have watched over the King?" Asks my uncle, cutting me off with a raised hand. "Do you not trust your own sworn brother?"

Ser Preston drags a gauntleted hand down his face with a groan.

"I _trust_ Moore to cut down any that would do harm to his King. Ser Mandon is one of the deadliest men in this entire fucking parade, Lannister. But I _don't_ trust the man to do anything more than _watch_ should the King be swept away with the current, just because _you can't stab a fucking river_!"

We all turned to look at the Kingsguard in question.

He shrugs.

"Ser Mandon Moore," I say, rubbing my temples in exasperation. "While I am not formally in your chain of command, please consider this an order from your Princess: should the King, or any other member of the royal family, be in apparent mortal peril, and you cannot _remove_ said peril yourself, you are to remove said royal _from_ such peril, such as by pulling the King out of a river, with all due haste."

A thought.

"You are to remove your armor _before_ removing anyone from a river. Are we clear?"

That earns a slow, uncertain nod. Well, no, if he was uncertain, then he'd probably just keep staring at me. We'll just call it at a nod and move on.

"Remedial lessons in bodyguarding aside, the King has still not moved," Guyard chips in.

"Good catch, Morrigen. Did you pick your shield for his eyesight, niece? Because it is _excellent_."

"Pick on someone on your own payroll, Uncle. If you hurt his feelings, I will send you an invoice for the damage."

"Is anyone going to actually _do_ anything?" beseeches Ser Preston. "Please?"

I lower my gaze, fists clenched. There's nothing really _to_ do with Father like this.

He hadn't been at the table with the rest of the family this morning, which was not unusual, a lot of casks _did_ get rolled out of Darry's cellars after all. Uncle Jaime had been with us, but he was off shift, and as Mother was there, where else would Uncle be? I hadn't given much thought to Father's absence, just going about my day.

I hadn't realized anything was wrong until I saw Jaime, Moore, and a half dozen red cloaks galloping away from the convoy, which was still parked around the inn. Ser Mandon _was_ on duty, so seeing him _without_ Father was cause for some alarm. I had followed, Guyard in tow, because that's his job, and Olyvar eating dust, because I requisitioned his horse.

We arrived at the river to find Father, standing there just as he was now, the red cloaks spreading out in a perimeter while the Kingsguard convened.

Father was...his fury was no stranger to me. He's a naturally loud person, shouting is how he commonly expresses himself, shows his anger, his depression, whatever's on his mind. I can _handle_ that. But sometimes, rarely, he'll go quiet. And there will be a _rage_ in his eyes.

That's how it was now. Gold and black cloak thrown over his shoulders, clad in the rumpled clothing he slept in, barefoot, and with a serious case of bedhead, he should have cut a ridiculous sight. But his face was stone, jaw clenched, altogether showing a shocking resemblance to Uncle Stannis. And his eyes, they burned with a black hatred, so different from his usual bellowing anger.

I had spoken softly to him, but there had been no response. He was elsewhere, off slaying dragons apparently. I'd backed off then, going to question the white cloaks instead. I didn't know what else to do.

Father's quiet, dark rage doesn't always _stay_ quiet. It's a volatile compound liable to be set off by anything. Wildfire was an apt comparison.

These moods of Father's are admittedly infrequent. I had only seen his silent hate _explode_ into active hate exactly once before. But it was such that I've no desire to see it ever again.

So when the King goes quiet, I flee.

This...stillness...was a horribly novel presentation of his silent wrath, but it was recognizable enough to make me feel a familiar unease.

Usually Father would work through these moods via the passage of time, perhaps drinking it all away in the dark. I think so at least. The whole fleeing in fear and shame limited me to speculation. The problem was that, so long as he was standing there by the ford, the whole convoy was held up. Which was fine, because King, but certain people may get impatient and send someone to _poke him_. No one needed what would follow.

Did this happen in canon? If so, why didn't it also happen on the way back from Winterfell? It did sound like a particularly bad dream, but those weren't uncommon with him, so proximity to the Ruby Ford must be a major contributor to this episode of Father's. Did the incident with Arya prevent him from sinking into his memories again? Or did he just get it out of his system the first time around?

Before I could brood any further, a solution was offered.

"Well, it looks like there's another day for me to save," Uncle Jaime announces glibly, untying a sack from his horse. "Don't worry everyone, I'll handle this."

"You'll...handle this?"

"Please Aly, your disbelief is hurtful. Don't you have any faith in you knightly uncle?"

I give him a look, trying to beam my skepticism directly into his brain.

Seemed to just be bouncing off the smirk. Nuts.

"Okay, _how_?"

"I was thinking that a friendly little chat would do the trick."

"But you're not friends," I say in confusion, stating a fact.

"Such sharp claws you have," Jaime tutted. He leaned in and placed a hand on my shoulder, looking into my eyes with as serious an expression as he could muster. "Never let anyone tell you that you're not your mother's daughter."

He leans back from my outraged sputtering, smirk sliding back into place.

"Anyways, the talking part's really just to help this along," he says, gesturing to the sack.

"What's in there? Is it a friend of Father's? Is that where you've been keeping Uncle Tyrion?" I grump, trying to recover from the massive point loss.

"You could call it a friend of the King's, yes," my crappy uncle says brightly, pulling a very large jug out of the sack. "And it gives me the chance to try the Royal Select! My brother can be so stingy sometimes."

I recognize the happy little storm-cloud painted on jug, fat yellow lightning bolt sticking out the bottom and little crown jauntily hanging off the top. Wasn't hard, I did design the label after all.

"That is a gift for Lord Stark," I inform Uncle Jaime with a glare.

"And Lord Stark should thank me for my service, considering the reported potency," he replies. "Besides, there's still a whole cask of Lyonwyne that Robert will no doubt force Stark to share with him.

"I'll just offer him a drink," Jaime goes on, pulling out a pair of battered pewter goblets ( _Did he lift those from the inn?!_ ) and tossing the sack aside. "Then we'll get to talking about how fine a thing it is to kill a dragon, then another drink, and things should work themselves out nicely from there.

"Once the bottom of the jug is reached, your father will be having a nice nap. Then we load the King onto a cart and we can all be on our way by, hmm," Uncle Jaime glances from the jug to the sky, squinting. "Noon or so. He won't remember a thing since emptying the Lord of Darry's larder."

That sounded... not unfeasible, actually.

Better him than me at any rate.

"Objections? None? Excellent! As head of security for this mummer's show I would have disregard such anyway!" Jaime says with a cheeky smirk. "Greenfield, head back and scare up one of the covered carts and some idle hands, discrete hands if you can manage it. Fetch one of the King's squires as well, he'll need to be watched through his nap. Then go find somewhere to lie down. You look awful.

"Moore, go with him, then wake up whoever was on duty last night and put them through their paces. Be sure to let them all know that the man who makes the best showing doesn't get flogged. Then once they've all been run ragged, have them all flogged anyway. Then start working your way through every other sword and spear in the convoy."

I couldn't argue with that plan. Moore may be a robot, but his programming for slapping the shit out of people in the yard had always been top notch. And if people didn't want their shit slapped then they shouldn't sleep on the damn job. Simple logic.

"Send Tyrek with the cart, Ser Preston. He's more attentive than Lancel."

"You're his daughter, Aly, not his nursemaid," my uncle retorted with an eye roll. "Your cloak's not even the right color."

He nods to my (Olyvar's) horse, "Go on, we can tend to His Grace well enough on our own."

I glanced at Father; he still hadn't budged, hammer clenched in a death grip.

Jaime wasn't even wearing his armor.

Probably wouldn't help much, but still.

"You're sure you don't want me to send Celgane?"

" _Go_ , Aly. Tell your siblings a story. I'll be jealous, I've already heard all of Robert's stories."

"Fine then. What should I tell Mother?"

"She probably thinks the King's tugging on her tail again. You're a clever girl, I'm sure you'll think of the right words to sooth my sweet sister."

"I could tell her that her brother's getting plastered with her husband in the middle of the day?"

"Plastered?"

"A Lysene term for shitfaced."

"Well you _could_ , but then the wagon carrying your wardrobe _could_ also have a tragic accident. Only the summer dresses would survive, I'm afraid. But I'm sure you'd be fine, there can't be too much snow in the North."

 _Dick_.

My uncle turns away, striding over to his liege before I can come up with a rebuttal.

 _Well, let it never be said that Jaime Lannister didn't have balls._

Despite the grief I had given him, I may have misspoke.

No wait, I didn't. Jaime and my Father most certainly are _not_ friends. Impossible really, given the...well, I'd call it a love triangle, but if I ever used the term, Mother and Uncle Jaime would protest vigorously, and Father would just laugh and laugh and laugh.

Then he'd kill everyone.

I digress.

So not friends, but there's something there, some, eh, I hesitate to call it _respect_ , but I don't have a better term for it. Father never says "Kingslayer" mockingly, no derision or any malice in his voice. Anything but mockery really. Not a huge thing by any measure, but definitely a thing. Dunno how that came about.

Maybe this is Jaime reciprocating whatever that thing is? If so, then...good, right?

Still though.

"Let's go, Guyard," I say, turning back to my (Olyvar's) horse. "Be sure to ride directly behind me.

"I don't want to have to pick any pieces out of my hair if chunks of lion start flying."

* * *

 _Later..._

The Littlest Lioness  
Myrcella Baratheon

"...and it was in that moment, when Vader had been knocked aside by the rogue Han and the way was clear, that the young knight had a moment of doubt. The distance was great, and should he miss, then he and all his companions would die in fire and ruin. It was then that he heard it. A whisper on the wind. It was the voice of Ser Kenobi, and it told him simply: _'Listen to the song, Luke. Trust in me.'_

"And so he did.

"Turning away from the cross-hairs, Luke closed his eyes and listened to the song, and when the moment was right, shot his photon bolt at the Emperor's great dragon of death. The bolt struck true, piercing the chink in its armor, and in a blinding flash as bright as the sun, the dragon was consumed by it's own fiery breath, which billowed forth from the wound!

"And so the day was saved, and the Empire was dealt a mighty blow. The Emperor was not finished, not by any means, and Vader yet lived, but now all in Galaxy knew of the Rebellion's defiance, knew that a man could stand against a dragon and _prevail_.

"Thus did the spark of hope fan into a flame of victory, spreading across the land."

"You may all applaud now."

I giggled at that, clapping along with my brothers and a fair few knights, the one's with stags on their chests clapping the loudest.

Aly bowed mockingly, but I knew she enjoyed basking in our appreciation, like one of Tommen's kittens in a beam of sunlight.

"So was the Emperor and his Vader eventually slain then?" Joffrey asked with interest. "In truth I do not recall the story very well."

"That would be telling," Aly replied. "Ser Luke and his fellows would have many more adventures before the end of the entire tale. This was only the beginning; I'll tell you all the rest of the story in due time."

"I hope that Ser Luke and Princess Leia do get married," I commented. "His gallant rescue of her from the fortress on the dragon's back was my favorite part."

What is that strange look on her face for?

"I...suppose we'll just have to see, won't we?"

Truly, is she in pain or holding back laughter? Was it something I said?

"Why did Old Ben die?" Tommen abruptly spoke up.

"What do you mean?" Aly asked, looking down. Tommen had ended up in her lap sometime during the story.

"He let Vader kill him. Why didn't he fight back? You said he was like Ser Barristen, but Ser Barristen wouldn't give up like that, would he?"

Oh, he looked upset. Ser Barristen _is_ his favorite out of all of Father's knights.

"He was too weak to defeat Vader, so Vader killed him," Joffrey answered matter-of-factly, one hand absently tapping away on the sheathed dagger at his waist. He said that Father had gifted it to him, and he never seemed to be without it these days.

"Not quite," Aly interjects, cutting off whatever else Joff had been going to say. "He was like Ser Barristen, yes, in that he was an old knight, skilled and strong far beyond his prime. But don't you worry about Ser Barristen, he won't let anyone kill him, he's too strong. You've seen what he can do to me even with all my strength, yes?"

"But then why did Old Ben die if he was strong too?" My little brother asks, not quite mollified.

"Oh, there were many reasons I'm sure. Joff was right though, Vader was the stronger still," Aly said with a nod to Joffrey, who looked pleased. "But though he couldn't beat him with a blade, Ser Kenobi could still win in another way.

"Don't you recall his last words? _'Strike me down, and I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.'_ When Vader struck him, he did not simply die, Ser Kenobi _joined_ with the song, becoming a voice in the chorus himself. In the end, Kenobi was able to help guide Ser Luke to victory, defeating Vader's cause. So one could conclude that in being struck down, the old knight was granted the power to lay low a beast that would have regarded even The Black Dread as a mere horsefly.

"Ser Kenobi was pretty big on points of view, you know."

"So he made a prophecy then?"

"I don't really care for the term, 'Cella, despite how accurate it may be. I prefer to think of it as..." Aly trails off, chewing her lip in thought. "Joff, you remember how we've talked about the power in words? I think this is similar to the advantage of having the last word in an argument."

"I think cutting down your enemy makes for a better last word," he replies doubtfully.

"Not necessarily. Ser Kenobi died, true, but look what he managed to achieve despite that. Words have power, especially the last word. And if a person is powerful enough? A knight, a sorcerer, a king? Then their last words can be devastating indeed."

"I think you've been getting too into your own story," I tease.

"Hey now, it's true! The power of the last word is historic fact! Did the Grand Maester ever tell you about the Second Spice War in your lessons?"

I shake my head in response.

"Well, the forces of Prince Garin the Great were utterly crushed by an Valyrian army during that conflict. Garin would die, yes, but his death curse sank the entire city of Chroyane, and the Valyrians with it. A fine last word that was, I should think."

"Are you sure you're not just trying to have the last word right now?"

Aly blinked at that. She opened her mouth to reply, then stopped, glancing past the knights. I followed her gaze to see Uncle Jaime leaning against the doorway of the common room. He raised a closed fist at my sister, thumb extended up. He then turned and walked away.

He was walking really wobbly.

Staggering actually.

Had Uncle been drinking?

"Regardless, it seems that you'll have the last word for this conversation, little sister," Aly said, standing and picking our little brother up off her lap. "Let's get you all back to the wheelhouse, the convoy should start moving soon."

As we were walking back to the wheelhouse, Ser Mandon strode by and took our guards with him, leaving us with just the knights as an escort. The guards didn't look very happy about it. I wouldn't be happy either, Ser Mandon wasn't very friendly after all.

I looked up at my sister, who was distracted by the departing guardsmen, seemingly pleased for some reason.

"Aly?"

"Mn?"

"What's a shit-show?"

After she's done sputtering, she tells me that I earned a point. It's one of those odd things that my sister likes to say.

I'm not sure what it means, but I tell her that I'll keep it with the others.


	6. Stops Along the Kingsroad: The Neck

_Again I crashed into the dirt, and again I rolled with the momentum and sprang back up. This time, I remembered to immediately duck back down, avoiding my opponent's attack and countering with one of my own. He deflected my hammer on his shield and swung down at my shoulder. I punched out with my own shield, redirecting the hit away. Dancing back, I hoped to catch a breather, but he pressed on with a barrage of swings._

 _The collisions of wooden training weapons, clacking and thumping against shields and padded armor, echoed across the clearing, a staccato rhythm punctuated by barks of dark laughter and my own triumphant shouts and more frequent frustrated curses._

It was a warm day in the Neck, the cold snap that had harried us through much of the Riverlands having long since abated. Weather was strange in Westeros, what with the multi-year summers. I don't even remember the single brief winter that I've lived through in this life; I'm as much a summer child as Tommen or Myrcella.

However, every so often the temperature would drop for several weeks, not too much, but certainly noticeable for those used to the warmth of the long summer. Minimal impact on the environment though. Leaves stayed green, animal coats remained thin, no snow fall south of the Neck, etc.

I recall a theory that Westeros had a normal, if minimal, annual seasonal cycle and that the winters of this world were in actuality "little ice ages", like the one that began in the sixteenth century. There might be some truth to the theory, but the cold snaps were inconsistent, not holding to any regular schedule. For example, I don't think there'd been a single chilly day at all last year, but I remembered several weeks-long dips in temperature the year before.

Just another bit of weirdness that came with the planet, I suppose.

 _I hooked the blunted spike on the backside of my hammer to the edge of my foe's shield, wrenching it back. I struck at the opening I'd made, but the blow was knocked aside, and I was forced to lean back from a headbutt. I release his shield so that I can defend against the kick aimed at my knee._

The warmer weather coming back now was unfortunate. After all, the Neck was a swamp. And like most swamps, it was loaded with bugs.

 _My next swing was sidestepped, and I followed through to knock away the counterattack._

Bugs wouldn't be so much of a problem up on the causeway, the cool winds off the Bite could keep them at bay as we rode along, but we weren't quite there yet. Instead, the caravan had been at near a standstill in this boggy little area for the past couple days. The kingsroad had gone to pot here, paving stones shifting and sinking to create pot holes that the wheels of the many carts and carriages were all too happy to fall into. The wheelhouse's wheels were too wide and massive to be stopped by most gaps, but the larger crevices had managed to stymie our progress no less than three times.

After freeing it from the last crevice, which was in sight of the actual causeway, the wheelhouse made it all of ten feet before one of the huge wheels broke. Father had let loose with a particularly searing streak of profanity, and slapped the opposite wheel in frustration.

Then there were two broken wheels.

More cursing had followed.

Father ended up sitting around a smokey campfire for an angry drink. He had plenty of company; a number of knights and courtiers shared his irritation and had little better to do than engage in some day drinking while the wainwrights and carpenters set to work. The last I saw of the King, he'd been bellowing along with Lyn's line about burning carriages in a very heavily modified version of _My Favorite Things_.

He'd be fine.  
 _  
_ _I caught a blow badly on my shield and was sent skidding back, much to the amusement of the ugly bastard. Regaining my balance, I roared and charged back in, halting his steady advance with a flurry of my own._

Mother, who'd been forced out of the wheelhouse each time it had been stuck, ignored her husband's tirade and had stalked back into the wheelhouse, ushering my siblings on ahead of her and slamming the door behind them.

The repairmen would simply have to work around them.

I might have joined them too, as the wheelhouse was watertight and clever inlays of cedar further discouraged insects from intruding into the lion's den. But Joffrey so rarely let his Hound off the leash. How could I possibly pass up the opportunity?

 _I ducked under another of Clegane's swings, only to find his boot waiting for me. I'm snapped back upright, just in time to deflect the back-swing._

There's only one thing that I'm jealous of my brother over (okay, _two_ things) and it's having Sandor Clegane sworn to his service. I had thought that there would be more time to work on that particular acquisition, but Joff's eighth name day rolled around and then boom, he receives a monstrous puppy.

I'm the one that wanted a puppy!

Joff probably would have been happy with a pig.

I've made do since, but still.

 _I avoid another swing, then dart forward, pinning his weapon between my side and my shield arm. With him tied up, I aim a hit at his snarling helmet._

 _Before I can connect, I am_ hurled _to the side as Sandor swung his weapon arm away, despite my added weight. Toes barely touching the ground, I'm unable to maintain my hold and he shakes his way free._

 _I received a bop to the head for my troubles before I could find my bearings._

He wasn't as fast as Uncle Jaime, nor as skilled as Ser Barristan, and didn't match Father for raw strength, but the Hound was not all that far behind in any of those categories. All combined into one towering package, it put Sandor Clegane solidly in the top ten list of extant Westerosi warriors. That's my opinion from the melees I've watched and sparring with him at any rate, it wasn't like I was there at Pyke to see him in real action.

And fighting him was _fun_.

Honest!

I'm thoroughly outmatched by him of course, but sparring with Sandor was more akin to an extremely challenging boss fight than the utter impossibility that was facing Barristan. There's a sense that I could someday topple him, or the illusion of doing so was at least present. Fighting the Hound was like...

Hmm, how to describe it...

In my first life, I remember there being a large rock at the corner of my childhood home's driveway. It was a chunk of white quartz, about half as big again as a man's head. Smooth, irregular lines, worn down by time and weather. Eventually, a portion had crumbled, giving way to sharp, harsh edges. Half of the rock turned brown and stained, as rainwater seeped rust from revealed iron inclusions.

 _I raised my shield high just a bit too soon, as evidenced by the ever so brief lull in the fight. I practically felt the wind-up, and then the Hound hammered into the shield, forcing it backwards. My fist was likewise forced back, clonking right into my helmet._

Fighting Sandor Clegane was like having that rock chucked directly at your face.

 _"Heh heh."_

Followed by mean laughter.

All the same, it was always exciting to throw down with him, even if he did do most of the throwing. Not a lot of chances to do so, sadly, as Celgane's job put him at my brother's side most of any given day. Joff got all weird about the Hound knocking the stuffing out of me, so he never lets him fight me when he's around. But right now it was just me, Sandor, a couple of spectators, and a bunch of bugs, so there was nothing stopping the glorious slaughter.

I exaggerate, the Hound was very good at restraining himself. Sure, most people don't like to spar with Clegane because most people are nobodies and thus he had no reason _not_ to open up the throttle and paste them, but he knew better than to break me. He really made for an excellent sparring partner.

 _I bashed away a shield coming at my face, only to have the wind knocked out of me from a blow to the gut._

Plus he knew his way around a hammer.

I wouldn't call him indulgent, _per se_ ('cause that hurt, dammit), but most people don't like giving me the time of day. The whole gender thing gets lots of folks bent out of shape. No honor and glory to be had in beating up a girl after all. _Being_ beaten up by one was even worse.

For whatever reason though, Sandor never turned me down for a match whenever he'd been allowed.

There definitely was nothing going on like whatever had happened between him and Sansa in canon, thank every single god.

I guess he just liked fighting as much as I did, and to hell with everything else.

 _Intercepting a sweep to my legs, I lashed down with my shield. The shield's edge slipped just behind the hammerhead, and with a quick yank, the edge caught and the hammer was torn from Celgane's grasp. Gleefully, I took a swing at the now defenseless arm._

 _Then he_ moved _and my hand was empty and the Hound was smacking me on the top of my head with my own hammer._

See what I mean? _Restraint_. He could have drove me to my knees and left me seeing double with that hit. Instead my ears were merely sent ringing.

It's moments like that which show Clegane's got his own kind of magic, not unlike Jaime. The Hound is just as formidable as you'd expect a trained and experienced slab of charred muscle to be. But sometimes, he'll move just a little quicker, hit just a little stronger, edge _just_ past the boundaries of what ought to be physically possible. He's like a fire banked under warm gravel, embers momentarily flaring free before being buried once more. Should the day ever come where he explodes into a full-on bonfire? Shit's gonna be _crazy_.

I can hardly wait.

 _Backpedaling, I put some distance between us, dodging Sandor's subsequent swings. When I figure I'm far enough, I tossed my shield at his head. Clegane swatted it away, almost lazily, but I'm already charging, aiming to put my shoulder into his gut and my opponent onto his back._

 _Thud_.

Aaaaaand he's still standing.

 _Nuts_.

I've got a good view of his boots from this position. I can see that my charge made him slide backwards at least. A very small bit.

 _Next time, I'll go for the knees._

Then there's a pressure on my waist and the world spins around and I'm staring at the sky. _That's odd_ , I think, looking at the clouds. _I didn't even feel myself hit the ground_. Frowning, I waive my arm behind me, finding nothing but air. Seemed I wasn't on the ground at all. _What the-_

"Clegane! Put me down!"

I flail about in protest, with all the effectiveness and dignity of a turtle that's been flipped on its back.

"What the hell, Sandor?! I order you to put me down!"

"Clegane," Guyard piped up from where he'd been spectating. "In addition to my sworn duty to protect the life and body of the princess, it also falls within my responsibilities to see that her will is carried out."

I don't think I'm liking that tone of voice.

"As such, I must insist that you immediately follow the order that my charge has given you."

...what are you doing, Guyard?

The sky starts moving. I tilt my head back. It seemed Sandor was moving to the edge of the clearing, right towards tha-

"Wait don't put me down."

No answer.

"I don't want to be put down."

Silence.

"I order you to _not_ put me down."

Nothing.

"Wait."

A bird chirps a happy song, somewhere in the distance.

" _Stop_."

He's not stopping.

"No. No no nononostopstopstopstopwaitwaitwaitwAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIII-"

 _SPA-LOOSH_.

After a few moments of panicked splashing and darkness, I righted myself and ripped off my helmet, tossing it away. I found myself sitting in one of the shallow bog pools that ringed the clearing where we had been fighting.

And it's full of _stuff_.

Bog stuff.

I pulled a length of decayed vegetation off my arm. Oh gosh that stunk. Awful bog stuff.

Oh _no_.

My hair.

It's in _my hair_.

I think I might cry.

I turn watery eyes up at Clegane, who stood there at the edge of the pool, quietly observing my ruin.

" _Why?_ " I ask plaintively.

Sandor flipped up his snarling visor, revealing his unfortunate face. He looked a little bit like Rory McCann, if he had been cast in the role of Nolan's Two-Face. The fact that he's not dead is itself downright magical. _You can see the bone for Seven's sake_. At least he didn't have that bulging eye like Two-Face, so he had that going for him.

Grey eyes glance up to the sky, thoughtfully. After a few moments of contemplation, he looks down at me and answers succinctly.

"Training."

 _ **"WHAT COULD THIS POSSIBLY BE TRAINING ME FOR?!"**_ I screech, slapping the surface of the water angrily.

"Amphibious combat."

Dumbfounded, I can only stare as the Hound turns and strides away. He catches a silver flask out of the air, tossed by my crow as they passed one another.

 _Betrayal_.

Guyard casually made his way to the edge of the pool.

I fold my arms and glare at him, waiting.

He placidly gazed back at me.

I very deliberately ignore whatever it was that just crawled off my shoulder.

"You seem to have soiled your training clothes," he began neutrally.

"So it seems," I grind out between clenched teeth, quite aware of the brackish water soaking the quilted padding.

"And it may be weeks before we've clean water enough for laundry," continued the crow. "A pity."

"That makes me _sad_ ," I angrily comment.

"You _do_ look sad," agrees my shield.

My reply wasn't so much words as it was audible seething.

"But do not fret," Guyard assured. "We'll just have to find something for you to do other than sparring, for a while."

"What might you suggest?" I ask, acid dripping from my words.

"Your needlework could always use more practice."

My eye twitched.

"I know you try your best, but there's no shame in seeking aid if one is deficient in certain areas," he carried on blithely. "I'm sure the Lady Frey could aid you, she doesn't seem the type to judge harshly. I'm that sure she could help you match your sister soon enough."

My face is probably going to stick like this, but I just can't seem to care.

"Oh, I know," Guyard said with a smile. "Why not spend your newly freed time with your mother?"

 _Twitching intensifies_.

"Yes, that would be best," he continues, nodding to himself. "You and the Queen and all your ladies could sit together in the wheelhouse, chatting and gossiping together and trading embroidery techniques. There would be cakes and tea and it would all be just lovely."

Was the water actually boiling with my rage?

Nope, swamp gas.

Super.

Guyard clapped gauntleted hands together. "I just remembered, I saw some blue wildflowers back at the end of the column, we could pick them and weave them into your hair, my niece always loved doing so herself, I think they would be just the right shade to complement your eyes.

"Of course," he continued, the smug bleeding into his smile. "You should probably wash your hair out first. Twigs and slime make for poor accessories."

I took a deep breath and, rather than do what I really wanted to (try and find out if I could murder a crow with little more than sheer volume), exhaled explosively through my nostrils.

 _What just flew out of my nose?_

Looks like moss.

Oh jeez it just moved.

Everything is awful.

"My response to this travesty shall be equal parts unexpected and disproportionate," I state calmly. "You know this don't you?"

My shield nods in understanding.

"Good." I raise my arms towards him. "Now pull me out."

"No."

I gape in shock. "What do you mean, _no_?!"

"You would try to pull me in with you."

 _He wasn't wrong._

Truly, my crow has learned much.

"My pride in your growth shall in no way mitigate the extent of my retribution," I solemnly inform the knight, lowering my arms. "Now go find me some knives."

"What?" Guyard asks, leaning back and looking a little concerned.

"Did I stutter?" I reply, raising my eyebrows at him.

We stare back at one another for some time.

Only the soft, intermittent sound of steel plate falling to the ground interrupts the silence.

"How many knives?" Guyard eventually asks, slowly.

"Approximately a whole bunch. No more and no less. Now, if you'll excuse me," I say, standing up, filthy water streaming off my sodden form. "I need to go boil myself."

I turn to the remaining spectator in the clearing.

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary. I do commend your initiative, however."

Ser Mandon stopped pawing at the clasps of his breastplate, processing my words. Without reply or any other acknowledgement, he then bent over to collect the scattered bits of his discarded armor.

* * *

"So then he comes back with five knifes. Five! It's like he doesn't even know what a bunch is."

My horse snorted in reply.

"I know, right?" I said to the gelding, feeding him another apple. "I tell you what, swamps must be bad for crows or something, he's been acting defective ever since the ground started getting squishy. Those flowers did _not_ match my eyes at all."

Now it may _look_ like he's simply eating an apple and just being a horse in general, but he was definitely in agreement with me.

It was all in the ears, you see.

"Do be sure to relay everything to your knight, my lord of Frey," I say, turning to the squire. "I abhor the thought of speaking of my shield behind his back, so I would appreciate it if you could deliver my barbs directly to his face."

Olyvar looked uncomfortable, but nodded anyways.

 _He was a good doobie,_ I thought. _Guyard had better appreciate him._

I was still a little annoyed with him, so the crow was off running every inane errand I could think of, Olyvar being tapped for shield duty in his stead. I'd have probably been less miffed if there were more clean water on hand, but swamp, thus I had to make do with a single kettle of hot water and a rag. I was still feeling a bit gritty.

At least Father got a good laugh as I squelched my way through camp.

Also, I'd requisitioned a jug of disinfectant from Qyburn's wagon, so in addition to the grittiness there was also something of a burning sensation to contend with.

Truly a banner day.

The wheelhouse had been repaired at last, but it had gotten late enough that we'd be staying here for the evening and heading onto the causeway tomorrow. That decision was primarily due to Father wondering out loud what Howland Reed was up to. After which, a pair of crannogmen materialized out of nowhere to let the King know that their lord was currently seeing to matters to the west. Once everyone was done flipping out over the swamp ninjas' abrupt arrival, Father had invited the two to stay and share a meal and news.

But mostly Father wanted to try convincing his new guests to have that "froggy fort of theirs float us up the Neck in style", despite repeatedly being told by the pair that "Greywater Watch does not work that way".

In the meantime, as I'd probably be taking the wheelhouse for the next leg of the trip, I opted to take a break from the family for the rest of the day. Roslin was chatting away with some of the other courtiers accompanying the party, Lyn was having a lie down as she overdid it with the day drinking, Guyard was off collecting ribbons, and I had no idea where Qyburn was.

Though I did see one of his assistants walk into the swamp with little more than a butterfly net, an empty jar, and a sense of grim acceptance etched into his features.

That was a few hours ago now.

Poor Jasper, Qyburn always seemed to stick him with the shit jobs.

Anyways, I had opted to kill some time before dinner with my horse. He was always up for some good conversation. The grooms would give me odd looks, but I've caught a few of them talking to the horses every now and then.

I'm a trend setter, I am.

My horse was a light palfrey, not anywhere near as roided and ripped as most of the knights' chargers, but he could keep pace like an ambling Energizer bunny, and had a very sweet disposition. A dappled grey, more white than grey really, with a super silky coat and a long, snowy mane. Every inch a princess horse.

Ya know, for all that I like to remind everyone all the time, sometimes the thought just sneaks up and hits me: I am a princess.

Full stop.

My parents wear crowns.

I have my own knight.

I live in a damn _castle_.

I'm an actual, honest-to-god, _princess_.

And it's _that_ , of all things, that keeps coming back again and again to blow my mind. Not the whole, living a second life thing. Not the whole, every person of importance to me supposedly being fictional characters thing. Nope, the thing that makes me stop and go, _whoa_ , was the fact that everyone I met was obligated to refer to me as "Your Grace".

Not going anywhere with the thought, it just struck me strongly every now and then.

The horse nudged me. There was something in his eyes, as if he was trying to tell me something important. I think he was saying: "Quit spacing out over petty existential concerns and make with the goddamn apples already."

"Oh horsey," I said, hugging his neck. "So wise. What would life be like without you?"

"There'd be more walking involved, most like," came a familiar voice approaching from behind.

"Uncle!" I shout, spinning around. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in weeks!"

"Did you try looking down?" Tyrion replied as he dismounted and handed his pony's reigns to a groom.

"Har-har. Seriously though, did you fall down a hole or something?"

"While I did spend some time in a few choice clefts-"

"Ew."

"-the truth of my absence was that I was following up on an inquiry." He said, fishing something out of his pocket and tossing it to me. "I do believe you'll be quite pleased with the results of my detour."

Snatching it out of the air, I inspected what appeared to be a sprig of evergreen. My eyes lit up at the sight of the withered blue berries nestled among spiky green needles.

"You found junipers!" I cried, delighted.

"A whole mountain of them, actually," boasted my favorite uncle. "Uninhabited save for the odd trapper, with clear streams of snow melt running though to a tributary, one could hardly ask for a better location."

"Where was this?" I questioned. There were hardly any mountains on the way. "You didn't go all the way into the Vale, did you?"

"To the middle of the Fingers, as a matter of fact," Tyrion replied. At my raised eyebrows, he elaborated further. "I received the invitation to look at the trees just before the caravan departed King's Landing. After working out the itinerary, I gathered up a dozen adventurous hedge nights that didn't mind living off my coin for a few weeks, and took Harren's Trail east to Maidenpool. From there, it was a boat to Gulltown, then a proper ship was chartered to take us to the mouth of Coldwater Burn."

"That couldn't have been cheap, and don't even get me started on trusting yourself to a bunch of random hedges."

"I made sure to pick those with a taste for strong spirits," the dwarf replied with a shrug. "They'd go thirsty were anything to happen to me. Seemed sufficient motivation. I also played the _Rains_ for them every night, just in case."

My smile turned a bit pained at that.

 _Hopefully, some heroic soul had tossed that damned ukulele (sorry, "dwarf lute") of his overboard somewhere between here and the Fingers._

A vain hope I knew, but it was all I had.

"As for the cost, it was barely a dent in my income," my uncle continued. "And I'd have paid far more for what I found. In truth, even if this new drink should be a failure, though I'm sure it won't be, it's a fine enough place to distill anything. Roughly equidistant between Gulltown, White Harbor, and Braavos, finding a market won't be difficult. Ser Hendrick seemed to agree, judging by how wide his eyes were when I spoke of the profits the Dwarf's Head brings in."

"Not Lord Coldwater?"

"Oh his eyes were quite wide too, there was even talk of building a proper harbor in the future. No, the mountain in question is two days' ride up the burn, part of the fief held by one Ser Hendrick Grantson, a landed knight sworn to the service of Lord Royce. Upon concluding my investigation, Grantson and I took a raft back downriver to the castle and had a _very_ productive meeting with Coldwater. They couldn't to put ink to paper fast enough."

"That is _ridiculously_ fast to come to terms," I remarked. It was true, even the deal for Thunderhead distillery took more than one meeting to arrange, and Father technically owned that land. "What did you do?"

"Where's there one tree, there's bound to be more," Tyrion explained with a grin. "I sent copies of your drawing only to major houses. It was pure luck that Coldwater had passed the message on to a vassal _and_ that said vassal's maester had a few links of red gold in his chain. Having catalogued the local plants and trees in detail, they were able to make a swift reply. I simply pointed out that more ravens were likely waiting for me back at the capital. There are plenty of other houses in the snakewood after all."

"And I suppose the Lord of Coldwater Burn has some problem or another with one of his neighbors?" I speculated. I glanced upwards, recalling the relevant houses. "The Lynderlys?"

"Lord Royce _haaaaaaaaaaates_ the Lord of Snakewood," my uncle confirmed. "Don't know why, don't particularly care. I just mentioned vipers and he became terribly twitchy. He cares less about making coin than denying Jon Lynderly the same opportunity. Though yes, he does care quite a bit about the coin too."

"Naturally," I agreed with a nod. "I'll bet Ser Hendrick cared quite a bit too. He might well change his sigil to a juniper bough once the gold starts rolling in. Or maybe he'll repaint his arms with your face."

"I should lend him one of my stamps, I'd want him to get my jawline just right," he mused, rubbing his chin.

There was a _very_ odd mix between show descriptions and actor appearances when it came to how people looked around here. It ranged from my father, who looked nothing like Mark Addy, to Tywin, who was literally Charles Dance.

(Except for his hair. He didn't shave his head, like book Tywin, and he didn't have a beard, like show Tywin.

Mutton chops, you ask?

Oh my no.

That man rocked full-blown _Elvis sideburns_.)

Tyrion fell closer on the scale to his father, in that he more physically resembled his actor from the show, except that he was _color corrected_ to match his book description. Heterochromia in the eyes and white gold hair. It was like a young Peter Dinklage cosplaying as book Tyrion.

Honestly it bugged the heck out of me sometimes.

Still, I think he caught way too much grief over the dwarfism. It's certainly a disadvantage, especially in such a martially inclined society. But I don't see why all of Tywin's marriage inquiries for his son kept getting shot down. He wasn't an unattractive man (like I said, young Peter Dinklage), and had charisma in spades, and then there was all the _money_.

Also, his face was also most certainly not squashed-in, Jon Snow was full of crap.

Maybe his brow did jut out a little though.

"Putting my charming visage on more things aside, a copy of the agreement should have made its way back to my appointee at King's Landing by now. As soon as my father's order is compete, they'll get to work on the Coldwater stills. We've dedicated copper smiths producing them now-"

"Wait wait wait," I interrupted, waving both hands in confusion. "Did I hear that right? _Tywin Lannister_ is ordering stills?"

"Mmm, that's right," my uncle casually replied, buffing his nails on his coat.

"From _you_?" I asked with disbelief, pointing at my grandfather's most hated son.

"What can I say? It's only natural that the lions of Lannister should be the chief producer of Lyonwyne." Tyrion's grin was positively shit-eating. "The Old Lion does so enjoy his brandy."

I snapped my fingers in remembrance. " _That's_ why he was so curt when Uncle Kevan asked him about the new construction!"

"Behind the furthest hill in the furthest reach of the fief," Tyrion crowed. "But a new distillery is being built on the land of Casterly Rock as we speak. Most of Dwarf's Head is dedicated to whiskey production, so even a single glass after each dinner would see my father soon run dry.

"Oh, if only I could make up a novel kind of whoring that would capture his attention so," my uncle continued, wiping away an imaginary tear. "The idea of my father building a brothel on his lands just to satisfy a new vice is ever so appealing."

Yeah that'll never happen. Great-grandfather Tytos had never been a drunk as far as I was aware, so as irritating as it might be for Tyrion to make a career out of being a lush, it was far easier for Tywin to swallow than if his son tried opening a chain of whorehouses. That'd just be slamming right on that big red button of my grandfather's, the one labeled "daddy issues".

Also, I would definitely not be the genesis of _that_ enterprise.

"The Arbor's going to be getting a lot more orders for bad grapes then. Think Paxter's going to catch on?" I wondered aloud.

"I'm sure my father is capable of shouldering any price hikes," Tyrion dismissed. "He demanded a lump sum arrangement, rather than allow me to keep my finger in. Keeping the facility supplied is going to be his problem. For now, I'm more interested in seeing how these berries work out."

"So am I, though now that you mention it, I'm _also_ interested in how big my percentage is going to be."

"Your percentage?" He asked with faux puzzlement. "What would a daughter of a King want with all my coin, I wonder?"

"Gotta make payroll."

"You do know that Robert already pays for your servants, don't you, niece?"

"Sure, and then I pay them again."

How else can I be sure that my staff stays mine?

In reality, I only received a small trickle of the river of gold coming in from Tyrion's enterprises. Granted, it was still a _proportional_ trickle, but for all his teasing, Tyrion had wanted me to take a larger cut when we worked out our arrangement. I had assured him that there were plenty of other ways to settle any debts he might owe me.

Except for what he'd done to Songbird Hall.

There'd be no clearing that account.

That incident with the jackass and the honeycomb?

It didn't happen in a brothel this time around.

It happened _at the Hall_.

Lyn thought it was funny as hell, but she's not the one that had to buy new furniture.

"Far be it from me to discourage your generosity," my uncle relented, raising his hands. "You'll have plenty more coin to throw away as it is. Construction should already have begun in the Vale, so we might be able to sample the first batch before the year's out."

Today had certainly taken a turn for the better. Going from dumped into a puddle of horrors to getting a nice shot in the pocketbook and learning that in less that a year I might finally be able to enjoy a nice gin and...

 _Wait, how do you make tonic water again?_

Shit.

I'll toss that one to the Alchemists' Guild. Seven knows they're desperate for non-threatening work these days. They did manage to figure out seltzer, how hard can tonic be?

Okay, "figured out" might be overstating things.

These are people that can make napalm's big bad brother by the wagon load, no problem. Actually getting soda water into bottles? Currently something of a stumbling block.

Eh, in the meantime I'll just hire an alchemist to hang around the kitchens with a bucket of chalk and a jar of acid.

Might be expensive though.

I'll put him on Tyrion's payroll, he's flush.

"What's wrong? You're frowning like that time the Grand Maester told you that there was no such thing as a potato."

"No, I...well yes, I am still upset about that. We could do so _much_ with them if we could only find the damn things," I lamented.

"Make more spirits, you mean?"

"You _can_ make booze out of them," I confirmed. "But I was thinking more along the lines of eating them."

 _My dear tater tots, your memory haunts me so._

"To eat it now, or wait and drink it later, truly a vexatious dilemma."

"Quite. But no, I'd just realized I didn't know how to make the ideal mixer for your newest beverage."

"Hardly the worst omission from a dream-"

I violently cleared my throat, glancing at Olyvar.

Back when I was just a wee little thing, I got it into my head that I could pass off knowledge from my first life as dreams. A thin, flimsy cover I'll admit, but I figured no one would actually care so long as the things I apparently dreamed up actually worked. So when I start showing off some drawings to illustrate the concept of a printing press, Father's question about where I got such an idea was answered with a chipper: "I dreamed it!"

Then he got weird.

The Grand Maester examined me and asked questions about the "dream" every day for a week. I was kept in bed and worried over by servants like I was sick. Father started reading _books_.

Eventually, I'd picked up enough gossip to work it out. It wasn't the content of my dream that was the problem, but rather it was the fact that I was having such detailed and unusual dreams, _at all_. For all the importance that the books put on the dreams of various characters, dreams aren't, for lack of a better term, a big deal here, or at least not in the Baratheon household. Then Pycelle starts telling the old man about what a Big Deal my idea was, and I tell my father that it came to me in a dream. Suddenly, at least in Father's head, dreams equaled Big Deal.

Know who else had dreams that were Big Deals?

Well documented and well known Big Deals?

 _Targaryens_.

It was some pretty silly mental gymnastics for him to undertake, but as far as I could tell, I had inadvertently jostled that mental block of Father's which prevented him from acknowledging the fact that he and his whole family were descended from dragonspawn, and he was losing his goddamn mind over it.

Eventually the whole thing blew over, Father calmed down after Pycelle started blabbing what had become "his idea" to the Citadel instead of in his ear, but ever since then I've tried to take a more circuitous route to introduce my ideas, scrupulously avoiding use of the D-word.

I mean it's still the excuse I give to Tyrion, but I trust him to keep his mouth shut. My staff is also well paid enough to ignore any slips I make in spewing my usual nonsense. Part of Guyard's oaths actually compels him to keep my secrets, so I don't even need to pay him.

So I don't.

(Though if I did, I could then dock his pay whenever I wanted. Hmm.)

But Olyvar was Guyard's squire, and as such, his responsibility. He might not have got the whole speech about lips and ships yet.

Plus the fistful of silver to help reinforce the message.

He probably hadn't even received his "Team Aly" flask yet.

"Ah. I see your crow has gotten shorter," Tyrion observed, catching on. "Younger too. Oh dear, what did Qyburn do?"

"Qyburn doesn't _do_ everything, you know," I chided.

"He does enough," groused my uncle.

"Enough of that. Uncle, this is Ser Guyard's new squire, Olyvar of House Frey. Olyvar, allow me to introduce you to my uncle, Tyrion of House Lannister, the King's Master of Works."

"Master of Stills," Tyrion corrected. "That _was_ the title Robert gave me."

"And Jon Arryn changed it to Master of Works," I reminded him. "After you, bold as brass, walked into the Small Council chambers the next morning and asked which chair was yours."

"Did you know that Lord Arryn hadn't prepared a seat for me at all? I had to sit on a stool." Anyone that didn't know better would think the dwarf genuinely disgusted. "What kind of Hand fails to follow his King's proclamations? He was even present to witness it."

"He also witnessed the pair of you work yourselves halfway through that cask of single malt."

"At least he honored that decree," Tyrion sighed. "Had anyone had listened to your father once we'd gotten to the bottom, I'd have a lot more titles right now. And a fancy hat."

"Shame, that."

That council seat really should have been created for his work on King's Landing's sewers, but Grandpa Jon had stonewalled the formal appointment, probably wanted to limit Lannister influence at court. Which, to be fair, there was and is a lot of. But a sloshed order was an order all the same, apparently. Jon made a Stormlander appointment afterwards as a counterbalance, but I don't think it helped much.

Tywin, Mother, both, whoever had the original thought was irrelevant. Anyone can agree that idea to further humiliate Tyrion by sending him to oversee the drains of the capital, in light of his experience at the Rock, ended up backfiring spectacularly. Though no one could have foreseen the alcoholic revolution that would soon take place.

Giving Tyrion the reigns was the sensible option, it's very hard to find people in King's Landing that you can put much confidence in.

Also, it was only fair, I'd been the one nagging people to do something about the smell, after all.

 _But Aly,_ one might say. _Your father is a depressive alcoholic that loathes his stressful job, which he can also never quit. Why are you flooding the land with hard liquor? Surely, there are easier ways for you to go to hell?_

And you might be right, Mr. Hypothetical Busybody. But Aly's got a lot of irons in the fire, and Aly needs independent streams of revenue to keep things hot. I may have been able to make ends meet with the printing press, but that got away from me. Also, I don't know how to make ink, so the Tyroshi are having a blast jacking up prices as demand spikes, ruining that bottom line.

So I had to go with what else I knew.

Would I have preferred to know something more beneficial and benign than how to make a still?  
 _  
Yes_.

But I make do with the cards I've got.

I've mitigated things to some degree. Tyrion was sympathetic to my concerns, and has done much to make the hip flask the latest and most fashionable accessory among the nobility. Draining more than one a day was considered to be terribly gauche.

Of course, plenty of people don't bother themselves with such petty concerns.

I know Guyard kept at least three to five flasks on his person at any given time.

(Go Team Aly!)

The silver smiths were making a killing, if nothing else.

In the end, the solution for saving Father's liver was simple.

Two words: jungle juice.

No, wait, the opposite of that.

As it turned out, the old man can't really tell the difference between a needlessly strong drink and just having a splash of the good stuff in his cup. Therefore, I made sure his squires learned to handle mixers and make Father's drinks consistently weak, so that we don't have to have his stomach pumped on the regular.

All it took was making them solely responsible for policing the King's sick.

Not a perfect system, nothing is after all, but it worked well enough.

If Tyrek never attained his knighthood, he'd still have a bright future in bar tending.

Lancel was a perpetual fuck-up though.

It was probably all the extra-special threats I'd given him, made him jumpy.

"Pleased to meet you?" Olyvar spoke up, glancing between my uncle and I.

"And I am likewise pleased to meet you, young Olyvar," cordially replied Tyrion. "Frey was it? One of Lord Walder's brood, I believe. My beloved aunt is married to one of your much older brothers, the poor stoat. Tell me, how _is_ your father these days?"

"Still alive," I interjected. "Forget it, uncle, I've got the next death pool in the bag."

"Pity. Well, do inform me should anything unfortunate happen to your lordly father, I'll send you a nice bottle of something. For consolation purposes only, I assure you."

"Thank...you?" the squire replied, weakly.

What a good sport. Just goes to show that even a Frey can get behind ragging on the Freys. Practically a national pastime it was.

"So, what's been going on without me?" Tyrion inquired with genuine interest.

"Nothing too exciting, we've slowed to a crawl ever since hitting the Neck, probably why you were able to catch up with us," I answered. "Actually, why did you meet us here? If you were all the way out in the Fingers, why not sail up to White Harbor and meet up at Winterfell?"

"I had considered it, but I decided to have the ship drop us at a fishing village in the closest corner of the Bite. I didn't want to miss the chance to sail on an actual _castle_ -"

"It doesn't work that way."

"No?"

"That's what the frogs keep telling us."

"Well that's disappointing. Though I do love to see new sights. I've never been through the Neck before, it's not a total loss.

"Then again," Tyrion continued, looking around. "From what I've seen so far, I'm not so enthused about seeing the rest of it. I swear I saw mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds on the ride here."

 _Maybe that was what Jasper was off hunting?_ I thought. _Good luck with that_.

Something nudged me with a sense of urgency.

 _Apples_ , the ears implored.

Well, I'm fresh out, horsey, I don't know what to tell you.

Another nudge, more insistent.

"Fine then," I relented, offering the sprig of juniper. It was plucked out of my hand and munched on with gusto.

"Lord Banana appears to approve the new flavor," the dwarf observed. "A ringing endorsement, to be sure."

"Aww, you remembered his name!"

"It's an unusual name for a horse. For anything really."

"Actually-" I began with a wide smile.

"No no, I remember his full title well enough, no need to repeat it," Tyrion interrupted, cutting me off with a raised hand and a pained look.

Judging by his expression, Olyvar was in agreement with the dwarf.

"Hey c'mon, don't ruin my fun."

"Really, Aly," my uncle complained. "You have such a strange and terrible sense of humor at times."

"I just like to see how far I can go before someone loses patience and hits me."

"Your fondness for the training yard aside, you do recall that it _is_ a capital crime to strike you, yes?" Tyrion asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Ser Guyard's near constant presence is also something of a deterrent."

"That just makes it even better."

"What does, the impotent frustration?"

" _Yes_."

"You are a terrible little girl," Tyrion said, shaking his head sadly up at me. "Using my gift to torment the unwary so."

"He is a gift that just keeps on giving, aren't you, horsey?" I say, patting the gelding.

"Just terrible. Poor Morrigen deserves a statue for putting up with you. Where is your shield anyway?"

"He's annoyed me-"

"A shocking reversal."

"Shaddap. He irked me, so I'm punishing him."

"By sending him _away_ from you?"

" _Shut_. _Up_. I've got him running a series of tedious errands until I can think up something suitably devastating."

"Ah, collecting breastplate stretchers, is he?"

"Please," I scoff. "My crow's not some green squire."

A beat.

"No offense intended, Olyvar," I said with a nod to the squire.

"You're certain of that?" came the dubious rejoinder.

"I like this one, Aly. Come, let's have a drink by the fire, you can tell me about all the awful things my niece has done since entering her service."

"He's pulling shield duty. I'll tell you about the awful things everyone else has done. Like your brother, for instance. He helped father kill an entire jug of the Royal Select, you know."

"Not the one meant for Eddard Stark?"

"The very same," I confirmed. "The nerve of it all, that was supposed to be a gift. A rare one too, there's little ready yet."

"There's none ready, actually."

"What?"

"In truth, none of it's been fully aged yet," Tyrion admitted. "Rather than crack open an unripened barrel, I just filled the jug from one of Qyburn's stills."

"He uses that stuff to cleanse wounds!" I exclaimed. It wasn't Everclear, exactly, but it was _pretty clear_.

"Which makes it safe to drink," he concluded.

I stared at him, appalled.

"Well, as safe as anything else that man has touched," my uncle eventually conceded.

"You're going to kill the brand before it's even on shelves!" I snapped. "The Royal Select is supposed to be the best batch of _bourbon_ in the Kingdoms, not the finest _paint stripper_ in all the land!"

"That is what it's supposed to be, yes," Tryion agreed.

Then he shrugged.

"But how would Lord Stark know that?"

 _And he calls_ me _terrible_.


	7. Stops Along the Kingsroad: Barrowlands

"You want to," I paused as I brought the maul around, pulverizing an imaginary Dothraki screamer. "Name it?"

"It's Valyrian steel, wielded by a prince of the blood. Surely, it's worthy of a name."

"It's a dagger though," I grunted, resetting my stance. "More a tool than a dedicated weapon."

I swung again, this time picturing a Dornish spearman being blasted into smithereens. "Might as well name my razor."

My brother ignored me, content to carve slivers off of the stump that he was perched on.

He'd finally learned to cut _away_ from himself, thankfully. Joff hadn't been without the blade ever since father had awarded it to him back at Hayford. Probably even kept the thing belted to his pajamas when he slept.

(Pajamas being one of my more successful endeavors in the eternal quest to improve my personal level of comfort and incidentally, the world. Shifts were a bit too breezy for my liking. Took some doing, but I managed to put together a simple prototype. Then I made one of Mother's ladies that actually knew her way around a needle make me a proper set from a bolt of YiTish silk that I'd received for one name day or another. The idea spread from there, and proved quite popular.

Now, I don't know what kind of blood sacrifices the silk weavers were making over in Yi Ti, but damned if it wasn't like wearing a pleasant dream.

It was _nice_.)

I switched position, raising the weapon up over my shoulder. "Well, what did you have in mind?"

"Blood Taker."

"Accurate, I suppose," I grimaced as I brought the hammer down, swinging it around before the face struck the ground, the momentum helping to bring it back up. "Unfortunate that the only blood it's taken is its owner's, but accurate."

That got a dirty look from the prince.

"Don't give me that," I said, destroying another figment. "You're using up all of Qyburn's thread. It's not my fault so many stitches are being wasted on you."

"You're one to talk of wasting stitches," he mumbled, taking off another chunk of stump.

The maul slammed into the ground, a thin curtain of mud flying up from where it cratered the damp soil.

 _Rude_.

I turned my own glare on Joffrey. "If you've got time to be throwing shade about, you've got time to swing that thing around too," I huffed, irritably gesturing to where Lion's Tooth was jammed into the ground, tip-first.

Poor Tyrek would probably be bullied into buffing the thing again.

"Practicing forms is boring," was his reply, stated with the same conviction one might have in claiming the sky to be blue. "What's the point of drawing steel when there is no one to wield it against?"

"Because we're allowed live steel so often as is," I said derisively. "And forms are all the exercise we're allowed since Mother forbid us from sparring, as close as we are to Winterfell."

"I don't see why, the savage northmen would probably appreciate a split lip and a blackened eye on you, more so than the Tyrells did," Joffrey reminisced. "The Starks may find bloody noses to be fashionable."

"That was one time," I pointed out, finger raised. "And it was a valuable life lesson. Have you ever seen me spar without a helmet since?"

My brother snorted in reply, continuing his whittling.

"And I'm sure the Starks are lovely people," I went on, lowering my hand. "I doubt they appreciate a battered woman any more than their southron contemporaries."

"I still don't see why you insisted that you had 'walked into a door' as an explanation."

"Better than telling them that Ser Arys tripped me and I ate shit," I replied. _Poor guy still tried to apologize every time that story came up_. "Also, dark humor."

"But it's not funny."

" _You're_ not funny."

Joffrey failed to respond to my keen observation, preferring instead to watch the others spar.

My brother is the kind of person that, in another world, would have watched NASCAR for the crashes. Tourney melees thus made for some great family time. Morning training wasn't usually quite so exciting, however, but it held his attention better than practicing his footing, like he was supposed to be doing.

Guyard was putting on a pretty good show though, teaching his squire the fine art at how to not get demolished. This was accomplished by first demolishing said squire, then telling him why he got demolished. Olyvar kept bouncing back all the same, making a valiant effort despite the skill gap between the two being much wider than the age gap. Kid had heart.

Even though he's older than me, I still called him a kid.

My daddy's the damn king, so I could call him whatever damn well wanted to, really.  
 _  
Ooh, that looked like it stung_.

Olyvar was really beating the hell out of that ground.

He was putting his whole body into it, in fact.

And there goes Guyard picking him up. Such a dutiful crow, dusting off his squire and giving him a pep talk.

Then putting him on his back again.

I tugged the maul out of the ground, bringing it up to resume my workout. It was little more than a big, ugly chunk of lead on the end of the stick, an oversized sledgehammer. It was even larger than Father's old hunk of iron, but that was a one-hander after all, while this was meant for two. I myself preferred a smaller hammer, but this was excellent for building strength, plus I needed additional training with the maul anyways.

I had plans after all.

 _Still_ , I thought as took a stance. _I probably wouldn't use this in actual combat._ Even if I kept getting faster, it was still a chore to control the momentum, stop myself from being left wide open. Given the difficulties, not many knights used a maul, though some did. The effect they had, the few times they'd appeared in melees, tended to be spectacular. Busted limbs, shattered weapons, crushed armor, and on one particularly memorable occasion, an explosive decapitation.

It had been pretty graphic, and Tommen had likely been turned off of melees for good, but at least Ser Meryn's replacement was much more pleasant.

Still scratching my head over how I could have butterflied all _that_ into happening.

A yell drew my attention back to the spar. Seemed Olyvar had gotten frustrated and attempted to overcome his master with a furious charge. Guyard sidestepped and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the Frey sprawling.

 _Anyone can beat up squires,_ I thought, whipping the oversized hammer around. _But my crow's still more talented than the average knight_.

The man had earned his position after all, and being able to cross swords with the many skilled warriors living in and passing through the Red Keep only allowed him to grow further still. He would have been formidable even without me, had to be, given his placement in Renly's color guard in another life. But I like to think that this time around, Ser Guyard Morrigen will be more than a footnote in Westerosi history.

Well, okay, he'll still be a footnote, but he'll be on _my_ page of the history books.

Which was obviously better.

"Y'know," I puffed, glancing to my brother, still idly watching the other boys and men wail on each other. "Mother'd probably let you out there if you were formally squired under a knight."

I took another couple of swings before continuing. "None of the Kingsguard have their own squires right now. Just say the word and Uncle Jaime or Ser Barristan would take you on."

"I don't fancy spending half the day scrubbing armor and brushing horses," Joff drawled, turning away from dueling knights to look up at me. "And isn't Barristan yours anyway?"

"Ha!" I laughed, shouldering the maul. "If the Lord Commander belonged to anyone, it'd be Father."

I shook my head.

"I'll take lessons from any willing to give them; if measured by hours, the old master at arms or Guyard have most right to name me pupil. Old Bold's a more than fine teacher, yet he can only humor me so much. I can't be a squire, so there's only so much time he can take for my instruction, royalty or no. If I could've, I'd of jumped on the chance like the Spider on a secret."

I waived the maul at my brother, an impromptu pointer. "Nothing stopping you from earning your spurs though."

"I thought I've made it clear that I don't share your dreams of servitude and drudgery."

"You could be made into a knight by a living, breathing legend and you're worried about keeping your nails clean," I groaned at the well-worn argument, re-shouldering the hammer.

"I doubt Ser Barristan would involve you in too much tedium," I assured. "That's what those dozen or so free squires hanging around the basement of the Tower are for. Do you know how long it takes to polish every single little scale on just one set of Kingsguard armor?"

"How long?"

"No idea, but it must suck. Why everything had to be white, I'll never understand. It's like Visenya just _despised_ squires or something."

"Perhaps she held a grudge. All the same, I think I shall pass." Joffrey said airily, turning back to the action.

It looked like Olyvar had tagged in Clegane. _Clever stoat_. Have fun with that, Guyard.

While Joff didn't like letting his Hound play with me, he had no such issues when it came to my crow. Guyard's no slouch, but Sandor still takes him more than three falls out of five. I just argue an unfair advantage in reach whenever little bro feels like trotting out the old "my shield just beat up your shield" boasts and assure him that things would be far different if Clegane didn't have freakishly long monkey arms.

(Sandor's arms were actually perfectly proportional, yes, but Team Aly is a united front in the face of all external shit talking.

Internal shit talking was a completely different matter altogether.)

And now Guyard's on the ground. The Hound does play rougher with my shield than with me, but Guyard can take it. I can trust this Clegane not to damage my things.

Mostly because he knows he'll never see another drop of rye again if he does.

No such boasts today however, the boy instead observing the next round quietly as he slowly and carefully twirled his dagger.

I shouldn't be surprised at the attachment he had to the thing. Father's a sentimental man himself, still preferring the old knife that his father figure gifted him decades ago. If nothing else, I'm certain that Joff won't be handing it off to any footpad along with a bag of silver any time soon. And with Guyard having collected every spare sharp and pointy object in the caravan, among other sundry items, it should be harder for my brother engage in any acts of supposed mercy.

Qyburn complained about all the extra crap that's been stuffed in his cart, but he'll just have to deal for the time being.

I'll make Guyard put it all back after we leave Winterfell.

Eh, most everything.

Hardly a foolproof plan, but I ought to be able to keep Bran on the ground for at least that single vital day anyway. Somehow. If I get desperate I might just break his hand. It'd likely get me tossed out of the castle into the snow, but better the kid get a busted hand than a busted spine. Plus, we can avoid a whole week of Aly trying to stop little brother from engaging in conspiracy to commit murder.

It really shouldn't be all that hard to prevent that entire series of stupid decisions from occurring, but just seeing that dagger in Joff's hand makes me wary. Even without Littlefinger being there to wager it, Father still somehow won the thing on Joffrey's twelfth name day. Despite the butterflies, even the smallest pieces continued to move in a manner eerily reminiscent of canon.

Sometimes it felt like someone was deliberately fucking with me.

Probably Bloodraven, the pasty creeper.

 _Fretting about it won't help anything_ , I reminded myself as I tossed the maul from one hand to another. _I don't get any of those spiffy prophetic dreams, so all I can do is plan for what I_ think _will happen and be ready to act for when my plans inevitable go out the window_.

Guyard had managed to beat back Clegane this time, to the hoots of a few idle guardsmen that Moore had yet to dismantle this morning. Elsewhere, Tyrek was giving Lancel quite the run for his money, to the obvious frustration of the older squire. Olyvar seemed to be done sparring for the day, having stripped off his padded coat and shirt. He hung onto one of the barrels set out for the fighters, drinking messily from a ladle. Water dribbled from his face onto his bare chest, glistening rivulets running down along pectorals and following the lines of lightly defined abs to _GET BACK IN YOUR BOX!_

A relatively recent development, I had started noticing, ugh, _boys_. That had been... _ **new**_. Annoyingly, such thoughts refused to stay in their box, despite my best efforts. Probably had to do with that whole "flowering" thing.

And wasn't that just a pretty little euphemism?

You know, I considered myself a reasonably educated person in both of my lives, so I'd been relatively unsurprised by the changes a young woman's body endured during puberty. But I felt as though the...spontaneity...of certain issues was not emphasized to me nearly enough. One moment everything is fine, then the next you're moon-bleeding all over the place.

That had been a fun dinner.

Discomforting physical changes were one thing, but they didn't hold a candle to how some other things had changed. I was clearly a different person from who I was in my first life, both in body and mind, as I found certain interests and instincts shifting from what they'd once been. Naturally, I sought confirmation of my altered mental state.

So, in the name of science, on my last name day I drained all of Guyard's flasks and proceeded to make out with that pretty little kitchen maid.

Didn't do a thing for me.

In addition to that distressing revelation, now I can't even get a snack without eyes being made at me.

On the one hand, it's a little flattering that she'd like me to drag her into another dark corner, but on the other hand, I just want a burrito, Molly.

And now I've got to deal with nosebleeds on top of everything else. Come on Aly, it's _Olyvar_. I liked the guy, but as a minion (or a minion's minion, if we're being technical). He didn't even have a chin.

(The only one that could make the Frey anti-chin work was Roslin. Probably because after fitting in the huge eyes, there wasn't even any room for a chin on her tiny little face. It went with her tiny little everything else.

Totes adorbs, she was.)

"I think Blood Taker's a poor name," I announced, grasping at a distraction and turning away from shirtless stoats. "It tries too hard, I think."

"Too hard at what?" Joffrey frowned up at me.

"At being edgy." I waved him off as he began to reply. "Yes, it's supposed to be edgy, it's a very sharp blade, we all know it. I meant that such a name tries to be intimidating merely for intimidation's sake. It's an unfortunate trend among many famous blades. Heartsbane, Nightfall, Lady Forlorn."

I gave my brother a wry look. " _Orphan-Maker_. Don't be that guy."

"And Fury?" Joffrey argued. "I suppose Father's guilty of being 'that guy', as well?"

"First of all, I named it, so it's fine, second and most importantly, it fits his _theme_ ," I replied, setting down the hammer. "His is the Fury after all. Names should be fitting, reference a greater scheme. Think of the blade named Blackfyre, it was perfectly appropriate for the man famed for riding a fire-spitting beast known as the Black Dread."

I waved at his forgotten sword. "That was a considerate name right there, a nod to both your look and that lion on your chest."

"So, what, I should call this 'A Coat of Red' then?" Joff asked, waggling the dagger back and forth.

"That's actually not half bad," I murmured, tapping my chin. "But perhaps something shorter, like Fury. Those are the best names, I think, the ones which embody an idea or concept with just a single brief word. Like, for instance-"

"Ice," my brother predicted.

" _Ice_ ," I finished with a grin.

"You're far too excited to see that sword."

"Any you're not? Uncle Eddard used it to beat freaking _Dawn_. Badass as hell, that is. The name fits _so well_ with everything about the Starks. And three little letters making up the biggest slab of Valyrian steel on the continent, if not the world? That's just cool."

"That was a wretched pun," commented my brother, sourly.

"It wasn't a...huh, I guess it was," I shrugged. "My bad."

"Stark isn't our uncle either," Joff admonished me further.

"Debatable, given the way Father speaks of the man," I said breezily, waving away his consanguinity concerns. "Anyways, a dagger is no greatsword, so you should avoid a long name anyways, lest it become a joke."

"I thought you didn't want me to name it at all?"

"Well, now I'm invested. If you're going name it, you should go about things properly," I responded, warming to the idea. "It doesn't get the attention a dragonsteel sword might, but there's fewer such daggers in circulation these days, so that increases it's worth. And being just a dagger means that no one else has given it an identity yet. This is your chance to make it your own!"

"It's already mine though," Joffrey reminded me warily, leaned back from my enthusiasm.

"That's not it. Right now, it's merely a dagger, if a very fine one. But you could start a legend for it. It all depends on how you use it. Sure, it makes a fair stump hewer," I nodded to the pile of wood chips he'd accumulated. "But someday it could have it's own epitaph. You don't think the fey just called it 'The Sword of Promised Victory' when they pulled it out of the forge, do you? Deeds done by a blade count for more than what it's made from."

"Is this another lesson? I think I've heard it before. Your obsessions can be quite tiresome, in case you were unaware. The name isn't all that important."

"Nonsense," I replied, leaning on the maul. "Names are super important. If it weren't for names, the only way I could tell you apart from Tommen would be your height. And the poor temperament.

"And if whatever you're winding up to say simply proves my point," I talk over my red-faced brother. "Then I won't get the hilt redone for you."

"Why would I want it redone?!" He snapped, the promise of something shiny barely keeping him on this side of civil. "It's dragon bone! Father said so. It's not as if there's anything better."

"I was thinking more dragon bone, actually."

"Because there's lots of _that_ to be had."

"It's all about where you look for it," I informed him carelessly. "Seriously, that thing's going to last forever, you might as well personalize it some. Come up with a name and when we get back to King's Landing, I'll have something more fitting installed. I know a guy."

My brother looked intrigued, despite the fact that he was subtly angling the dagger away from me. _Of all the things that stuck with him_. I'm being nice, here!

"I know the rule, no taking what doesn't belong to you," I said evenly, reigning in my exasperation. "I wouldn't take it without your say-so. Tell you what, if you go for it, you can hold onto my hammer, as collateral until the work is done. Sound good?"

He glanced at the mud-stained maul I was leaning on.

"Pfft, naw. I meant the one Father gave me."

"I'll think about it," he replied shortly, but he was giving the handle of his blade a critical look.

"Good," I straitened up. "Now, it looks like our shields have finished denting each other for the day, so we might as well head over to Father's pavilion for breakfast."

While Joff waived over a page to collect our weapons, I went to one of the barrels for a drink. I glanced at the others sharing the field. With the crow and Hound done with their sport, the spectators had surrounded another pair. It looked like there was a wrestling match about to occur, judging by the young barrow knight in the colors of House Dustin shrugging off his tunic.  
 _  
Now there's a side of beef I wouldn't mind on-_

I abruptly shoved my head into the icy water.  
 _  
Just think about Summerhall, Aly,_ I thought, blood rapidly cooling. _And be thankful Loras and his stupid, beautiful face stayed in King's Landing. The pretty ones were the_ worst.

"Whoo!" I shouted, throwing my head back. _"Bracing!"_

"The seven hells is wrong with you?"

"I had worked up quite a sweat," I explained, squeezing out my hair. "Something you wouldn't know anything about. Now go find me a towel."

You're a good looking kid, Joff, all fine features and golden curls, but the faces you make are just oh so very _punchable_. Like the one you're making right now, for instance.

"Fine then, let your poor sister catch a cold. The least you could do for me then is let me have your share of eggs."

" _No_ ," my brother selfishly said. "I like eggs."

"But you don't _need_ them. We're critically low on chickens, and if your Hound goes on one more bender, that'll be it for fresh eggs. Then how am I gonna get swole?"

"You _want_ to be swollen?" Joffrey skeptically asked.

"It's actually a Lhazareen term for jacked as heck."

Comprehension failed to dawn on his face, so I went on. "Which is, of course, Meereenese slang for swole."

"You are so embarrassing," Joff grumbled as he turned and started walking away.

"Oh, are we reciting facts now?" I called, skipping after him. "I know whole a bunch!"

* * *

We'd finally passed beyond the barrowlands, the wide open plains giving way to more woodsy terrain. It hadn't taken as long as the journey though the Neck, but at least there'd been stuff to look at there. In contrast, the barrowlands were just a whole lot of flat _nothing_ that seemed to go on forever.

It was basically Iowa, with less corn.

Also colder. The warmth had shut off pretty abruptly once we'd passed Moat Cailin. There was snow all over the goddamn place. I was fairly certain that it was the first time I'd ever seen the stuff with these eyes. The drifts were all slowly melting too, which might mean that this actually passed for fair temperatures north of the Neck.

If so, then color me unimpressed.

 _On the upside, all this snow meant I could have as many baths as I wanted._

As if to emphasize the thought, a handmaiden dumped another bucket of hot water over my head.  
 _  
Ahh, this is nice_ , I thought as she went off for another bucket. _Nothing quite like a hot bath on a cool evening_.

The sentiment was shared by fair few others given the screens that had sprouted up around the impromptu bathing area, set up a short distance from where the camp was being put together. I should have charged a fee, considering all the firewood they were burning through, but it was cheap. It'd barely take any silver to load up at the next village the outriders found.

"Is, um, am I supposed to be doing this?" Roslin asked, holding a tray containing the usual soaps and scents and such.

"Eh, not really. You're," I pointed a sudsy finger at her. "My lady-in-waiting. _Technically_ a handmaiden, but in practice you're a personal assistant or whatever you'd call someone that gets paid to be my friend. Holding my soap is a tad menial for your station.

"Now Blonde Betha, here," I jerked my thumb at the handmaiden working on my mane. "Is an actual handmaiden, well used to such drudgery. But I only brought a pair of handmaidens with me, and Brown Betha's tending the water. One must make due when traveling and, fortuitously, you're here to pick up the slack.

"I also forgot to bring a table, so here we are."

Roslin was quiet, looking thoughtful.

I put my hand back down while the Frey processed that, resting my forearm on the rim of the barrel serving as my bathtub. It'd taken an unreasonable amount of effort to find one that didn't smell too boozy. Not everyone minded the scent, however. Oddly enough, some of Mother's ladies seemed to prefer bathwater that was basically eau de malted barley.

They'll probably have to walk tomorrow.

"I don't get paid," Roslin said at last, frowning down at the tray.

"No?"

She shook her head.

"Oh."

I tapped my fingers along barrel's lip, thinking for a few moments before tilting my head back.

"Guyard!" I shouted. "Pay Roslin!"

"Not your paymaster," the screen replied.

"Duh, my accountant's back at the Red Keep! You're my petty cash master! Dig out the lock box tomorrow and get the girl some walking around money!"

"Ah, I was just pointing it out, I don't-"

"Never know," I waved her off. "Always better to have coin on hand than not."

"I...suppose," hesitantly agreed the Frey. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Think nothing of it, and please, no need for formalities here. I'm not even wearing any pants."

"I suppose next I'll be the laundry master, or the snack master, or the Banana master, or-"

"Griping isn't part of your oaths, crow! I know, I was there when you swore them! I can hear you muttering back there!"

Guyard was continuing his punishment tour that evening, tasked with guarding my bathing screen. Not that it was strictly necessary, the men were bathing a ways away, and a healthy detachment of guards watched the treeline. Standing around staring at trees might not be the funnest way to spend an evening, but they were probably just happy to get away from Moore.

No one had actually countermanded Jaime's order from all those weeks ago, so Ser Mandon had seen no reason to stop.

"Also, no peeking!" I continued, deciding to ruffle his feathers some more. "You peek, then I tell Father, then you know what time it'll be?"

"Hammertime," he replied tiredly.

"Hammerti-" I paused, frowning.

Standing up on the tips of my toes, I leaned over and hooked my chin on the edge of the screen.

"Have we had this conversation before?"

"It _is_ one of the usual threats you make whenever you assign me this duty, yes." Guyard answered with as sigh from his position on the right end of the screen, eyes fixed on the treeline.

"You know, I recall you looking much more uncomfortable whenever I've made you do this in the past."

I reached a hand over the screen, pointing to the left.

"Like that."

"Am I really supposed to be doing this?" Olyvar (safely clothed) asked, eyes likewise fixed forward, looking particularly squirmy.

 _He's even learned to share with others,_ I thought. _Soon, my shield may no longer even need my guidance. Only pride could feel so bittersweet._

"Time and repetition will lessen the sting of most indignities," Guyard said, ignoring his squire's question. It was probably rhetorical anyways. "In truth, I had expected something more novel."

"I've been busy!" I earnestly protested. "Do you think it's easy, coming up with new and interesting ways to correct your behavior? Spoiler alert: _it's not_.

"That said," I continued, while Olyvar quietly mouthed "spoiler alert?" to himself. "I cannot afford using up anymore of my precious brain meats on this matter. Should anyone ask, you've been suitable chastised, is that clear?"

"As you command, Your Grace," he replied unblinkingly.

Excellent, now he shouldn't expect it when I spike his flasks with a Jasper Special.

He'll definitely be suitably chastised once I relieve him of his eyebrows with my Vengeance.

What?

If Joff's going to name his little pig sticker, I might as well give my razor a fitting title.

"Good, otherwise next time I'll make you _be_ the actual scre- _ack!"_ My warning was interrupted as I was tugged back down.

"Owww, easy on the hair," I whined, lowering myself into the barrel so my handmaiden could finish working. "You're never going to make Minion of the Month like that. At this rate, Black Betha's going to beat you, and she's back at the capital."

She just grunted at me, working out a snarl.

Eh, I guess she's not out of the running yet.

"Roslin? What's the matter, you're looking almost as distressed as your brother out there."

"Well, ah, Alysanne, it's just that, back home, my sisters and cousins were each other's handmaidens," she explained, eyes averted. "So, I only bathed with family, so, um..."

"So you're uncomfortable with your new friend constantly flashing you?"

She nodded, blushing.

"Oh, Ros, I'm sorry," I reached out to pat her hand. "You'll get used to it."

"HAH!" barked the screen.

"No eavesdropping either, crow!"

* * *

The New Friend  
(Roslin Frey)

"This is fantastic," Perwyn stated, staring at the flask. "What is it?"

"Ser Guyard said it was called Buckshot," Olyvar answered, reaching to take it back.

"I think this might be superior to the Old Peculiar," my eldest brother said, turning away from our sibling's grasping hand and taking another pull. "Though I don't think I'd want it on the road. It tastes like it'd knock you off your horse were you careless."

"My master said I would need it," Olyvar grumbled, catching the flask as Perwyn tossed it back to him.

My brothers were escorting me back to the carriage from the baths. The princess had "tagged me in" and then left with her shield. While her Bethas stayed behind to cleanse themselves after assisting me, Olyvar had walked with me and we'd come upon our brother.

"Have you see anything interesting, Perwyn?" I asked him. He had been patrolling with the outriders the past week, so there'd been little chance to speak with him as of late.

"Just snow and trees," he yawned. "More interesting than the barrowlands proved to be, but the North is truly a forsaken land. A person can ride for days without coming across a farm or holdfast."

"No wolves?" Olyvar distractedly asked, frowning as he shook his flask next to his ear.

"Not a hair. The King organized one more party to range out before the last of the light's gone, gave the hedgies something to do. Everyone's been saying how close we're getting and the Starks know we're coming, so we could see dire wolf banners at any moment."

"It will be nice to spend some time with a good roof over our heads," I commented. "We haven't had one since the Moat."

"You've done alright though, haven't you?" Perywn prodded. "The roof on that carriage is nicer than the ones in the villages we've stopped at."

"That's true," I admitted. It wasn't the Royal wheelhouse, which I'd been invited to ride in a number of times, and was better appointed than any room at the Twins. But, all the same, the princess's carriage was a far better place to sleep than most others.

Well, I think it was her carriage. I'd once thanked her for allowing me to stay in it, and she had stated going on about how it was "hers _now_ " and something about nine tenths. She often went on tangents like that.

"And I'll wager the Princess keeps it warm as well," my elder brother said with a mocking grin.

"It _is_ cozy," I said, slapping the oaf's plated arm as my cheeks heated.

Even with the seats and cushions folded away, there wasn't much room to be had. And it was chilly in the North. Really, what did they expect me to do? Alysanne had said she was merely jesting about me being "handsy", but _of course_ Perry had been there to hear the initial comment and now he wouldn't stop teasing me.

At least he wasn't there any mornings to see Lynesse stumble out after us. The bard had an amazing voice, and the largest collection of unique and varied songs I'd ever heard, but she flitted about the convoy like a distracted bird. When she wasn't playing for the princess or another royal, one didn't know where she'd turn up.

Sometimes I'd wake up and find her sprawled out on top of us, snoring melodiously. Alysanne minded the impropriety little, and would simply call her a "bony lush" before shoving the bard off, and that would be the end of it. Of course, it raised the question of how she even got there, as Ser Guyard and Ollie slept outside next to a low fire, right under the awning. The knight never said anything, but he did twitch whenever Lynesse appeared in the mornings.

"And yes, Alysanne is, ah, very warm," I confirmed, shaking out my stinging hand. "She's been very kind to me."

"She's just weird," Olyvar disagreed, taking a sip from the flask. "And she cackles."

 _Well, he wasn't wrong._

"Warm, weird, what's important is she's _wealthy_ ," Perwyn spoke lowly, leaning in. "And even more important, _generous_ , as much as her father. We'll all do well in her service."

Olyvar looked considerately at the silver flask in his hand.

"There is that. Ser Guyard said she simply _gave_ him that entire barrel of the Sot's finest, just as he gave me this, freely. His arms, armor and horse are quite fine too, though his breastplate is oddly mismatched. If she's even half as lavish with her coin towards me, I'll want for little as her shield's squire."

I couldn't argue with my brother's assessment, burrowed into my thick, fluffy robe as I was. Woven in the great textile works of Lorath, with cotton imported from Last Lament on one of the Summer Isles, then colored in the King's Landing dye works with red and gold tinctures from Tyrosh, the magnificent robe was worth more cumulatively than all the clothes I'd ever worn.

And Alysanne had said I could keep her "second best bathrobe" until "we'd got you one of your own".

House Frey was hardly poor, but the sheer size of my family meant that such luxuries were unheard of, except outside of Father's own possessions. And the princess handed them out as mere trifles. I'd been surely blessed when the Queen requested that I attend her daughter.

"But you are not in my lady's service," I said to my eldest brother, the thought occurring to me.

"No, but I've still benefited. The Kingslayer has offered me a position at court. I mean, he was a twat about it, but that's normal for him. He's said I'd done good service on this trip, and his niece has spoken well of me."

"Truly? I'd have thought the King had plenty of knights as it is," Olyvar gestured expansively at the busy camp.

"The court could always use more, it seems. Ser Jaime's brother has many interests in King's Landing, but not the men to secure them. Plenty of smallfolk, aye, but the Kingslayer says a set of plate and a horse are great help in projecting the crown's authority. And he says the Master of Works would rather spend coin on knights sworn directly to him, rather than bribe more gold cloaks."

"I'd prefer you to stay at Father's manse, Perry" I said, clutching the robe tighter. "They say people can disappear if they walk down the wrong street in the capital."

"There's half a million people in the city, of course a few will be misplaced," Perwyn said, waving aside my concern. "Even so, it's worth the risk. Forget the coin, I'll have the attentions of the Master of Works and the Kingslayer. I do well enough, and they'll support my claim for Rosby, maybe the Queen too. You two will secure the Princess's support. I saw Lord Gyles, he can't have many years left. My claim's as good as any other. With all those behind me, the King will settle the matter in my favor.

"When I'm Lord of Rosby, I can give you land to build a keep, you'll be a knight then, Ollie, maybe knighted by the King himself even. You'll have a fair dowry, Ros, better that what Father would allocate, and the Princess can help you find a good match. Willamen's letters say he's getting his chain soon, so he can be my maester. Benfrey...well, Benfrey's a cunt, but I can give his children opportunities."

My brother's eyes shined as he described the future he envisioned. Father was...well, he was Father. But it was Perwyn that took it upon himself to look after his mother's children. The Book of the Crone may warn of the ruin that follows in the wake of covetousness, but the Book of the Father made clear the duty a man had to his family. I cannot deny the advantages that my family could find in Alysanne's service, and I cannot fault my brother for wishing to exploit them. I must simply give my lady honest and true service, and hope Perry's plans come to fruition.

"If we do well in the coming years, our futures will be secured," Perwyn said fervently. "So, remember what Father always says."

" _'There's plenty more squirts where you came from, and I can always make more of you shit-wits, so don't fuck this up!'_ " The three of us recited in unison, and then sighed in concert.

"Bah, enough of grand plans for now, squire Ollie here should be able to manage the last dozen yards to your destination," Perwyn said, clapping his youngest brother on the shoulder while ignoring Olyvar's unimpressed look. "I've got to find a place to sleep tonight."

"You needn't sleep under a cart again," I admonished. "I'm sure Maester Qyburn would allow you to stay in his wagon, or in the tent with his acolytes." I gestured to where they were set up. The kind old man was a charitable soul, and a pleasure to speak with. Alysanne was fortunate to have gained his service.

One of the acolytes was actually passing by at that moment, heading to the tent with a large object, bundled up under an old, stained cloak and slung over his shoulder. He looked frightfully nervous. The bundle was...dripping?

The cloak twitched.

Immediately, the young man threw the bundle to the ground, then went to his knees and started punching the old cloak repeatedly, eyes wide with fear.

After near a dozen blows, the acolyte paused in his assault. The cloak remained still. The man let loose a deep sigh of relief and picked the bundle up, slinging it back onto his shoulder.

He took a step forward and then froze, suddenly noticing us watching.

We silently stared at each other for a time, a strange tableau. The man with the now definitely dripping bundle. My brothers with hands on sword hilts, both having moved to stand a half step in front of me. Myself with my hair wrapped in a towel and gripping a robe that I was near swimming in, clenched hands keeping the extra eight inches from dragging the ground past my sandals.

Eventually, the man forced a weak smile.

"Ser Perwyn, squire Olyvar, my Lady Frey," he said with a dip of his head to each of us in turn.

"Hello, Jasper," we greeted in unison, because who else could it be? I noted that my own greeting was far more agreeable than Perwyn's faint disbelief and Olyvar's flat irritation.

The acolyte nodded again, then woodenly turned away and briskly walked to the tent. Just as he reached it, a woman with blonde hair, shorne close to her head, stepped out to berate the man before ushering him inside. As Jasper entered with his bundle, the woman made note of our presence. She smiled brightly and with a wave, disappeared behind the tent flap.

"I...think...I'll stick with my usual accommodations," Perwyn said slowly, eyes fixed on the tent. "On the other side of the camp."

"Seriously, how does no one else ever notice any of this?" Olyvar griped, twisting his head back and forth, observing the bustling encampment.

What were my brothers so concerned about? It was just Jasper.

We parted ways thereafter, Perwyn hurrying away as we came around to the front of the carriage. Ser Guyard had already set up the awning that he and my brother slept under, and shortly ordered Olyvar to see to the fire. The knight offered me a hand to step up into the carriage.

I paused before taking it, light glinting in my eyes. I turned to my left, where the massive wheelhouse was parked in front of the carriage, wheels secured in place by large logs. None dared to take it off the road, for fear of never getting it back on, so camp was made right on the kingsroad.

The Queen was standing before the wheelhouse, calmly looking up at it. The light was coming from the jewels on her brow, the waning sunlight striking her profile just so, creating a bright sparkle. Her hair likewise shined, a curtain of golden fire. Clad in a fine red dress and a black bear skin trailing from her shoulders, she looked less like a real person and more like something from one of the Princess's stories.

I followed her gaze, and spotted the little prince, standing atop the wheelhouse. His back was towards me, pudgy body wrapped in furs, and he was looking through a far-eye, pointed down the road. He must have climbed up there to look over the King's pavilion, which was sprawled in front of the wheelhouse. Faintly, I could hear the strums of Lynesse's lute coming from it, but could not make out her words.

Next to Prince Tommen knelt Ser Jaime, keeping a hold on the boy lest he slip. He had traded his armor and white cloak for a long, cream colored leather coat. The sunlight caught both the boy's and the man's hair, setting it ablaze in the same shade as the Queen's.

The Kingslayer turned away from whatever Tommen was watching, looking down at the Queen.

The Queen smiled, softly.

I took Ser Guyard's hand and hurried into the carriage.

I couldn't bear the thought of the Queen seeing me in little more than her daughter's oversized robe, like a child wearing her mother's clothing.

My lady was seated inside, still clad in her equally fluffy golden robe, the black stag emblazoned on the back turned away from me. The windows behind her were covered with canvas, drawn taunt to keep out the chill, while the ones before her were open, letting in the sunlight. Her damp hair did not shine like her mother's did, instead it drunk in the light, appearing to grow all the darker for it.

"There you are!" Alysanne looked up, blue eyes bright. _Energetic as always_. "I want to get this thing done before we hit Winterfell. Please continue with the antlers, when I try it just looks like it has way too many ears, and frankly you're much better than my handmaidens."

"I'd be happy to," I said, smiling at the compliment. I sat down and pulled the sheet over my lap, my basket of sewing implements already set out for me.

"Thank you. I'll keep working on the back end. We'll go until the sun finishes going down, then get dressed and go dine with the King."

A dull roar sounded from nearby.

"Or maybe we can eat in tonight. It sounds like Father's been pregaming pretty hard. Anxiety maybe?"

I merely set about finding where I had left off while the princess muttered aloud, not actually expecting a response from me. Another eccentricity that I was learning to ignore. Finding my place, I looped black thread through a needle.

"Any requests?" Alysanne asked, turning back to the stag's rump.

The image of a man intently staring down at a golden woman flashed through my mind, unbidden. I shook my head, the thought popping like a soap bubble, vanishing.

"A love song," I said absently, working the needle into thick, yellow cloth, more like canvas than a sheet.

Even without looking, I could still see the raised brow in my mind's eye.

"Any in particular?"

"Something new, if you know any."

"If I know any, she says," scoffed the princess.

She was silent for a short time, the only sounds in the carriage made by our needles at work. Then, she began:

 _It's late in the evening;  
She's wondering what clothes to wear  
She puts on her make-up;  
And brushes her long blonde hair_

Alysanne softly sang of a man dancing with his beloved. A simple song, but beautiful none the less. It was likely one that Lynesse taught her. Her voice was deeper than the bard's, but it was still sweet, and seemed to fit the tune well.

Slowly, the antler took shape, one stitch after another. Alysanne was kind, but my talent was really nothing exceptional. Compared to her own it was, perhaps. It was clear which parts she had worked on versus myself and her Bethas. It's was passable, the stag was just...shaggy.

It was odd that the princess had little talent with a needle. Her hands were as steady as a rock when I watched her paint thin, precise lettering on the flask that Ser Guyard had then gifted my brother.

 _The stag would look fine_ , I decided. _One just needed to stand far enough away_.

That may be why it was so big. The sheet was huge, and the stag itself larger than the King himself was. The material was too coarse to serve a blanket. The princess had dodged all my questions as to its purpose as we'd worked on it over the weeks. Perhaps a tent?

The sun sunk lower as time passed. Alysanne had started singing another song once she had finished the first, and then another and another. Some bright, some melancholy, all assorted songs of love. I didn't know she knew so many. I missed Lynesse's lute, and it was a shame I hadn't brought my harp with me, but I still enjoyed listening. I was particularly fond of _Dream Weaver_.

 _And if we turn back time  
Could we learn to live right?  
And if we turn back, time-_

The latest song was interrupted by a young voice shouting.

"Riders, I see riders!"

The princess quickly set aside her work and moved to stick her head out the window. I wasn't far behind her.

"Tommen!" Alysanne shouted back. "What riders? Are they ours?"

The boy was already on his way down. Ser Jaime had tucked the prince under his arm like a sack of flour and was descending the iron rungs running down the back of the wheelhouse. The Queen had moved closer, arms held out to intercept the prince once he was in reach.

"Yes, and white banners too! I saw the wolves!" Tommen shouted happily, waving the far-eye with excitement. I felt excited too, the Starks had finally found us!

"Good work, brother!" My lady shouted back. "You were the first one to notice our new guests! Now don't drop that, they're very expensive!"

We pulled our heads pack into the carriage as the Queen took hold of her son.

"Well, it looks like we're going to be having company," the princess commented. She looked down at herself, then to where all the extra length of my robe had pooled around my feet. "We should probably put some pants on."


	8. The Wolves of Winter: Meeting

A Young Wolf  
(Robb Stark)

I stood in line between Sansa and Father, growing impatient. We'd been here for the better part of an hour already, after Porther, one of Jory's riders, tore up the courtyard as he rode in. He'd said that the King's party was right behind him, so we'd all dressed in our finest and stood ready to receive the royals.

Porther and I clearly used the term "right behind me" differently.

Not that Father had seemed to mind, standing as still as a statute the whole time, making no movement save for his furred cloak fluttering in the breeze. There must be some trick to it. Perhaps that'll be a future lesson, how to look as imposing as a crypt effigy without your legs falling asleep.

Father only broke his unmoving vigil for a brief moment, shooing Arya into line after she'd skipped over from wherever she'd been hiding, excitedly babbling about how the King was here and she'd already seen him.

She proved far more accurate than Porther, as soldiers bearing banners with stags and lions began filling the courtyard. Though the Houses of the West and the Stormlands were the most prevalent, half of the Kingdoms were represented among the growing crowd. Knights in colors from the Crownlands, Riverlands, and Reach accompanied Jory's own detail of white and grey clad guardsmen, and even a contingent of barrow knights were present. I'd never seen some of the heraldry before, likely hedge knights and free riders, judging by their worn and mismatched kit.

Eventually, the flood of armor ceased and the men parted ways, revealing the main column snaking down the road. _Did the King bring his entire court with him?_ I wondered. The arrival of the royal party must have doubled the population of the castle.

A smaller procession made its way through the gates, headed by a huge man whose thick beard was split by a wide grin, a pair of riders in white armor flanking his impressive black destrider. A third knight in white rode ahead of a pair of youths, a boy in dark red velvet and cloaked in gold, riding alongside a girl wearing a long black coat, trimmed with fur and golden accents. Another huge man with a helm in the shape of a snarling dog followed behind the boy, while a man in green and black plate trailed the girl.

A surge of pride flowed through me as the girl's head twisted back and forth, her wide-eyed expression taking in Winterfell. _So, the ancient seat of the Starks could inspire awe in even the jaded southrons._

Oh, looks like we're kneeling now.

My knee bent along with everyone else's in the courtyard, each of us bowing our heads half a moment behind father, who knelt as soon as the first rider dismounted from his destrider. Any doubt over whether or not he was the king was silenced by a booming shout of " ** _Ned!_** " and the sight of Father beginning to stand before his boots suddenly left the ground.

Good enough a time to rise as any.

Standing, I saw Father being set back down by the man who could only be King Robert Baratheon, who patted the Lord of Winterfell with massive hands, jovially roaring about how he hadn't changed a bit.

I couldn't help but think that my namesake would fit right in with the Umbers, memories of the time Father had taken Theon and I to Last Hearth rising to the forefront of my mind. The King wasn't as tall as the Greatjon, true, but he was much more broad.

Fatter too.

 _No, that was unkind_ , I thought as the King shook my hand, my own disappearing within his large, rough paw. No gray yet marred his hair, but he still appeared a decade older than Father, despite the two being near an age with one another. And he did possess a layer of fat over his large frame. But it covered a great mass of strong muscle, as evidenced by how tightly my hand was squeezed in what was supposedly a friendly grip.

 _He was like a grizzled old bear, prepared for winter_ , I concluded, the thought brought on by the three parallel scars marking one side of his face, dragging deep grooves from under a bright but bagged eye, down into a trimmed, coal-black beard.

 _Even though he's not wearing his crown,_ I reasoned as the King moved on to greet my siblings, _it must still weigh heavily on him._ All the same, I could still see the warrior that had smashed the last dragon on the banks of the Trident before I'd even been born. It was just lurking under the layers of years and wear.

More people were coming forward now, as riders dismounted and carriages unloaded. A group of ladies trailed behind a woman who was obviously the Queen, the rubies wrapped in grey and gold circling her head being a dead giveaway, as if her beauty wasn't enough. A pair of younger children walked with her, a doughy boy of an age with Bran and a girl with long golden curls, the Queen in miniature.

The youths had joined her while the other knights hung back, the knight in white acting as their sole escort. He'd removed his helm to reveal the same golden hair as the Queen. _The Kingslayer,_ I thought, _it had to be._ More worthies and courtiers entered the castle further behind the royals, among them the dwarf Tyrion Lannister, whose face I recognized from a cask that Fat Tom kept in the Guards Hall.

"So then, I've met your family now, Ned, a fine pack you've put together!" King Robert didn't quite bellow. I suspected that it may simply be his normal speaking voice. "What do you think of my herd?"

The King ushered his family forward, and my father knelt again, kissing the Queen's large jeweled ring. Respects received, her silk-covered arm retreated under the bear skin she wore, golden claws dangling from black paws. Father in turn waved us forward, and we met the Baratheon children.

"Crown Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon, of King's Landing," the curly hair boy informed me, shaking my hand after I had bowed and introduced myself. He didn't _look_ like a prick, but the imperious expression he wore grated. Or maybe it was the fact that he was taller than me, despite being two years my junior. Regardless, he would likely thaw after he'd had a chance to recover from the long trip.

 _Or perhaps he'd be an even bigger prick than I'd heard,_ I thought as the heir to the Seven Kingdoms moved on. _Time would tell._

Sansa didn't seem to mind him at though, giggles slipping out despite herself as the golden prince kissed her hand. _So long as he's kind to my sisters, I should not judge him too harshly._ Indeed, he smiled quite charmingly at the elder of my two sisters.

Arya herself was less enthused with her prince, directing a flat, half-lidded look at Tommen as the little boy exaggeratedly and energetically shook her hand up and down. Oh Arya, if only there was a painter on hand to immortalize that expression. I'd have the portrait hung in a place of honor for all to see, perhaps above your chair in the great hall.

"Greetings, my young wolf of Stark! Might I safely assume you to be my father's namesake?" came another loud voice, interrupting my thoughts. Looking away from Bran carefully bowing to Princess Myrcella, I turned to see the remaining royal before me, holding out the edges of her coat as she curtsied low.

"Princess Alysanne of House Baratheon, of King's Landing, at your service."

She turned her braided head up at me then, revealing a wide smile as she rose up.

And up.  
 _  
Gods, what are they feeding these people?_ I thought, astonished. _She's of a height with father, perhaps even taller! The King-with-teats, indeed.  
_  
Though she wasn't really all that mannish, I supposed. The princess shared size and color with the King, but little else. Her hair, for instance, was long, not coarse as her father's was, and she was much less broad overall. Hints of the Queen's delicateness were present in the princess's handsome features, and her skin was clear, lacking in scars and darkened circles, though she was flushed from the cold.

No beard to speak of, all teeth appeared to be present and accounted for, and she certainly didn't have a flattened face like a war hammer.

Theon owed me five stags.

He would still likely argue the matter, there were plainly teats present under the riding leathers after all, but generally his prediction had proved extremely inaccurate.

Yes, those were _indeed_ teats.

 _What was I doing?_

Alysanne was still smiling, reaching out a hand towards me.

 _Right, still greeting the guests._

Just as Father had done with the Queen, I knelt down and took her hand, bringing it to my face. _Was there a-_

Yes, there's a ring, a small silver band encrusted with sapphires. I kissed it, briefly brushing against fingers hardly more slender than than my own. Her hand was smooth, but hardened. Calluses?

"Robb of House Stark," I said, looking up at the princess. "I welcome you to Winterfell, Your Grace."

 _There, I was paying attention,_ I thought with satisfaction. _Hopefully, Father will let up on the etiquette lessons after this._

What's wrong with Alysanne though?

Her face was far more flushed than it had been a moment ago. Feverish, even. _Perhaps she had caught something on the trek through the Neck?  
_  
The princess's smile appeared to have frozen on her face, blue eyes going wide. She stared at me for several long seconds, silent. Feeling a little foolish, kneeling there in the snow, I let go of her hand and stood up.

Alysanne snatched her hand away while I got back on my feet to resume our staring match. Her jaw began to work, but no sound came out, as if she couldn't decide on what to say. When the princess did eventually speak, she was far quieter than when she had introduced herself.

"Hi."

More succinct as well.

Before I could think of how to respond to the awkward girl, the King brusquely cut the introductions.

"Right then, you've all met. Now, take me down to your crypt, Eddard."

* * *

A Younger Wolf  
(Arya Stark)

"Do you think Joffrey will like me?" Sansa asked Mother as she worked, weaving my sister's long red hair into a fancy southern style.

I didn't pay attention to Mother's reassurances, it wasn't as if Sansa truly needed them. Instead, I dully picked at the drips of candle wax running down the mantle of the hearth. _It's bad enough that I have to wait around to have my hair twisted up, I could do without all the mooning over the prince on top of it._

"He's so _handsome_ ," my sister sighed.

 _Eugh._

As Sansa stared dreamily into her hand-mirror, no doubt picturing Joffrey's face crammed in there next to hers, I looked to Mother, and we shared a rare moment of understanding with one another.

We also shared an eye roll.

Joffrey _was_ handsome, I'd give him that. Not that I cared so much about it. Really, it was more that I'd be stuck sitting with Tommen all night. Robb and Sansa would get the tall, pretty ones. Even Myrcella was taller than Bran, never mind the prettiness. But me, all I got was that little... _ball_.

 _He was sure round enough to be a ball._

Yeah, I got stuck with the little golden ball of a prince, and everyone else got the impressive ones. Well, Rickon didn't get anyone, but Rickon was a baby, he wouldn't care. Even if he did have an escort for the feast, he'd probably just demand to trade them for Shaggydog.

 _I should ask to switch for Nymeria, that'd probably end up being more fun than Tommen._

"Seven hells, _who cares_ if he's going to be King," I muttered, as Sansa started going on about how perfect her life would be as Joffrey's Queen.

"Arya! Language!"

"Sorry, Mother," I mumbled.  
 _  
It's like her hearing just got better the quieter I spoke.  
_  
"You shouldn't be so jealous, Arya," my sister said. "Just because I'm going to be the one to marry Joffrey and become Queen of all the Seven Kingdoms. Really, I don't think you'd be very good at being Queen anyway, it's just not in your nature."

"I am not _jealous_ ," I hissed jealously. "And what would you know of my nature? I'd be a great Queen. Like, the best."

"But Queens are meant to be beautiful, so you-"

 _"Sansa."_

"Sorry, Mother," my sister mumbled.

"Why's Joffrey got to be King anyways?" I asked, silently promising Sansa another sheep shift. "He's not the first born. Why can't his sister be King?"

"Girls can't be Kings," Sansa said, like I was the dumb one.

"Queen then, whatever. She was the first born even if she was a girl, so she should rule, that's how it is in Dorne, isn't it?"

"King's Landing is not Dorne, Arya," Mother said, interrupting whatever stupidness my sister was about to say. "The last time a Queen ruled the Seven Kingdoms in her own right, the realm was torn apart in civil war. The Dance was terrible, leaving deep scars, such that no Lord would accept another ruling Queen."

"So, one bad Queen ruined it for everyone?" I asked, disgusted by the blatant unfairness of such a thing.

"In short, yes," Mother answered, not even looking up from Sansa's braids.

"Then Robb can marry the princess, and he can be King," I said, pointing out the obvious.

That would make me a princess too, I think.

Which is obviously better than letting Sansa be Queen.

Not just because this way I'd be a princess.

Mostly.

"It doesn't work like that," my sister frowned. "If Robb married Alysanne, then all she'd be is Lady of Winterfell, which is far, _far_ below a Queen."

Mother's eye twitched a little at that.

"Not that that's a bad thing!" Sansa continued quickly. "Robb can marry Alysanne if he wants! I think she would be a fine Lady of Winterfell. But I'm still going to marry Joffrey, become Queen, have lots of little golden babies, and everything will be wonderful, forever. And I'll have lemon cakes every day. If you're nice to me, I'll even let you have some too, Arya."

"I don't like lemon," I said flatly. "You know this."

"More for me then."

"No one's getting married without the Lord of Winterfell's approval," Mother stated. "And, as the Lady of Winterfell, _which is not that far below Queen_ , I happen to know that he has yet to consent to any match."

Now a rare look of understanding was shared between my sister and I. What a day. Perhaps the sun would set in the east, next.

I loved my mother, but even I knew that Queen was far higher on the ladder than Lady of Winterfell. Or Lady of Anywhere, for that matter. Even Princess topped Lady.

"Still, they should make an exception for the princess," I argued. "She looks more kingly than her brother does. Everyone even calls her 'Robert-with-'"

 _"Arya."_

"...better-hair?"

"She is not more kingly than Joffrey!" my sister snapped, defending her very, very recent beloved. "She is just a little taller."

"She looks like she could break him in half," I observed truthfully. "Like a twig."

"Don't say such horrid things!" Sansa cried, aghast.

 _"Snap."_

"Stop it!"

"Handsome or no, he does look pretty thin. I'll bet his sister could pick him up and toss him like a horseshoe."

"Mother, make her stop!"

"Arya."

"Fine," I grumbled. "Joffrey is very kingly. No one's going to break him like kindling, or an egg, or-"

" _Arya,_ " Mother said tiredly.

"Sorry, Mother," I mumbled.

I quietly railed against the injustice of petty Lords not letting a girl be King, just because of some stupid old Queen being stupid. I railed against lots of other injustices too, like how I had to practice sewing instead of learning how to shoot a bow. Or how no one let me see Father execute that deserter, but Bran still got to go, never mind that I'm two whole years older than him. Or how I was stuck with Tommen as an escort to the King's feast. Or how beautiful Sansa looked once Mother had finished with her hair.

I railed all the way to the chair to take my turn under the not-so-tender mercies of comb and brush.

 _I'd bet if I were_ Princess _Arya,_ _I wouldn't have to put up with any of this,_ I thought bitterly as Mother pulled the knots from my hair. _Robb better hurry up and marry Alysanne already, so I can be a princess too. I'm sure that's how it works, Sansa doesn't know anything._

 _And if Sansa_ does _end up as Queen, I'll never hear the end of it._

* * *

A Young Wolf  
(Robb Stark)

"My Lord and Lady of Winterfell, I am honored and humbled to be here this night. Know that I've traveled far and wide across our King and Queen's Seven Kingdoms, seen all manner of marvels and miracles, but nowhere before have I encountered such quiet and clean beauty as I've found in the North.

"As the Lady of Songbird Hall, I've heard many songs, sang many tunes, played many a melody. Since traveling past the Neck and seeing your great lands, I've thought long and hard of how best to capture the spirit of it all, the plains, the woods, the rivers. Eventually, I realized that it is the _people_ that make a land great, make it worthy of song. And what greater people are there, who has done greater deeds in this land, than the Starks?

"And so, I've composed this song to honor my gracious hosts. I shall sing of that greatest doer of deeds, the first of the Starks, the one that first gave us the words, 'Winter of Coming', a reminder of what lurks in the Night, words repeated endlessly across the millennia, lest the cost of forgetting be paid. I do hope you enjoy my efforts."

With a flourish, the slight woman spun the lute from her back and into her hands, and started plucking out a slow tune. Her speech before the high table had drawn the attention of many guests in the packed Great Hall, whom, as a result, had quieted down enough that I could hear her hum along with the piece. The audience became even quieter so that they too could hear, so it was near silent as she started to sing.

 _I dig my hole you build a Wall  
I dig my hole you build a Wall  
I pray that Wall 'll, never fall  
_  
"Shameless," Alysanne snorted faintly, seated at my right.

"What do you mean?" I whispered, turning to her as Lady Songbird continued her haunting melody.  
 _  
Gon' build that cas'le on a hill  
Gon' build that right where Winter fell  
_  
"I know for a _fact_ that she's had that song in her back pocket long before she ever set one foot in the North," the princess smiled ruefully, leaning closer towards me. "And I've heard more than a few variations of that 'shut up and pay attention to me' spiel."

"So, she's mocking us?" I asked sharply.

"No, no, of course not," the girl said, quickly dismissing my concern. "Lyn hasn't survived this long by bad-talking her patrons. It's just what bards do, reshaping songs and crafting their words as the situation warrants. I merely thought it amusing to see her put on airs, knowing her as well as I do."

 _Gon' build that Wall up to the sky  
Gon' build that Wall up to the sky  
_  
"I see," I murmured, distracted slightly by the smell of flowers, hovering so close by my ear. "She has been part of your father's court for long, then?"

"Indeed; courtiers come and go all the time, some staying a day, some might stay a year, but eventually something at home shall call them away, or they'll fall out of favor, or a myriad other reasons, and their faces will soon be replaced by others. Yet the 'Lady of Songbird Hall'", Alysanne gestured strangely as she said that, twice raising and lowering a pair of fingers, "has remained a fixture at the Red Keep for the better part of a decade, perhaps only Thoros of Myr has been there longer."

"A long time to be plucking stings, to be sure," I said, considering. "Though you haven't said anything especially kind of her, you do sound fond of the bard."

"I am fond of her," Alysanne confirmed quietly, her smile softening. "She was my very first friend, or the first not to share my blood, at least. I've known her since I was...six? I want to say six."

 _Like Theon,_ I supposed. I was six myself when Father brought him home, and we've been friends ever since, only Jon I've known longer. I could understand a bond such as the one Alysanne shared with the Songbird, seeing as how the squid had been a brother to me in all but blood.

Pity he couldn't sing half as well.  
 _  
So build that Wall and build it strong cause  
We'll be there before too long_

"Even if I _didn't_ like her, though," continued the princess, raising her voice as the Hall broke into applause, leaning away and taking the flowers with her. "I'd still have to admit she's good at what she does. I couldn't have picked a better song for the occasion myself."

"She played well, but I wouldn't think my family warrants such an eerie tune, myself."

"Better than this one," Alysanne wryly replied. "Even odds it becomes the national anthem of all the Kingdoms in a few more years."

She gestured to the bard, whom, at a bellowed request, had risen from her bow and had gone into an raucous song about a man sick from drinking. Father had put a hand to his face, but Uncle Ben had picked up the chorus rather quickly, and sang along with the ruddy-faced King. Mother did _not_ appear to care for the tune. Neither did the Queen, but she did tip her wine glass back deeply, so she agreed with the spirit of the song, if nothing else.

"Certainly more lively," I noted, pausing to sip from my cup. "Though sadly I've already had my one cup of wine. Father doesn't want any of us making fools of ourselves in front of our esteemed guests."

"Oh no, do feel free to get yourself good and fucked up," the princess said sweetly, as I choked on water. "Don't worry about little ol' me."

 _That was deliberate._ Had to be, she'd been letting slip a curse every other time I'd taken a drink all evening. The serene look she was giving me only confirmed it.

"I may well need to," I told her darkly, once my hacking had subsided. "Given present company."

"You know, quite a few people have told me those _exact same_ words before," the girl responded coyly. "I wonder why?"

"Perhaps they had similarly disquieting feelings."

"A feeling, you say? Perhaps you could ask my shield, Ser Guyard Morrigen, you'll find he shares in such feelings quite often," Alysanne grinned. "You could also shake him down for a drink or two, so as to better ruminate on the matter. Oh, here he is now. Hello, Guyard!"

"Your Grace, my lord," the knight bowed shortly to each of us after approaching our table, then turned his focus on the princess. "As you've requested, goodman Bael has agreed to meet with you, though he is intent on leaving Winterfell shortly, regardless of whether you've spoken with him or not."

Alysanne's eyes flickered briefly, then widened in comprehension. "Ah, good! I was hoping he would be amenable. Do you have the thing?" She asked eagerly, looking over her sworn shield.

"The thing?" Ser Guyard questioned, a look of confusion on his face.

"You know, the..." she waived her arm, searching. "The thing."

The knight looked at his charge blankly.

"Fine, make me do everything," Alysanne grumbled, eyes beseechingly raised up towards the rafters. She looked back towards the knight, frowning slightly. "Ether way, we need to get you properly attired first."

"This _is_ my finest-" the copper haired man began, glancing down at the storm-green doublet he'd traded his armor for. It did appear to be quite fine, if marred by a poorly stitched...bat?...over the breast. Strange, I thought House Morrigen's sigil was a crow.

" _Naturally_ , it is," scowled the princess, standing. "You know what I mean."

She turned back to me, face smoothing out. "I apologize, my lord, but there's a matter that must be attended to, immediately. I've a very limited window of opportunity to exploit, you see."

"I shall escort you," I said, beginning to rise.

"No, that's quite alright" Alysanne assured me. "I should be back shortly. You stay here and enjoy the feast. You wouldn't want to deprive my shield of an opportunity to earn his keep now, would you?"

"Ah, if you're certain," I hesitantly sat back down.

"Quite," she replied. The princess favored me with another smile. "I should be back shortly, make sure no one takes my chair!"

With that, she turned and aimed a curtsy at the high table.  
 _ **  
"Son of a bitch!"**_ the King thundered back.

 _What the-_

 _ **"Give me a drink!"**_

Ah, he was just singing along with the bard.

As Alysanne walked away, Ser Guyard watched her back for a moment before turning to me. I stared back as his gaze bored into me, intensely scrutinizing. I don't know what he was looking for, but soon enough he slumped and sighed, then reached behind his back.

"You'll want this," he muttered tonelessly, slapping something down on the table before following after the princess.

It was a flat, curved bottle, black and yellow paint half rubbed away, revealing shining silver beneath. I'd seen a similar few when I'd last visited White Harbor, sticking out of belts or being sipped by wealthy merchants. Looking about, it appeared that none had noticed the gift, so I quietly stuffed it into my own belt.

The feast was a bit quieter after that, the drinking music finishing and the Songbird moving on to a silly tune about some Dornishman's nameless horse. I stirred my plate idly, still full from the last course. The break from the princess wasn't unwelcome either.

She'd moved past her bashfulness by the time I'd escorted her to the Great Hall, but conversation remained stilted until I, searching for a topic, had asked about her siblings. Then it was one anecdote after another about the other royals, which turned into talk about the rest of her family. From there she told me of her home, of the crowds of Kings Landing, the bloody flagstones of the Red Keep, the warren of tunnels running underneath the ground. In turn, I spoke of my brothers and sisters and of Winterfell, telling her of the godswood and the springs, the practice yard and the kennels.

Alysanne wasn't a poor guest, though she lacked not for vigor, and did enjoy to poking and teasing. That could wear, at times. She took jibes against her in good humor though, which made for amusing back and forth.

The staring though, when she thought I wasn't looking, that was weird.  
 _  
All the same,_ I thought as the minutes slipped by, _I probably should have gone with her._ I was the princess's escort for the evening, and even if she had her shield, it was only proper for me to guide her here, at my home. It's not as if I disliked her company, she could just be a bit...much, was all. I could hardly be begrudged a breather.

Certainly, I got along better with my assigned royal than some others I could name. My sister completely ignored Prince Tommen, who merrily chattered away as he worked through another heaping plate, oblivious. Instead, Arya had taken to slowly looking between her plate and Sansa's dress. Not the most subtle of creatures, my littlest sister was.

"Stark, where has my sister gone?" Joffrey asked, having been in conversation with Sansa to my left.

"She left with Ser Guyard, Baratheon, claiming some brief business to attend to. It has been some time, however."

Green eyes rolled. "Knowing her, she's probably off talking to her horse. Or she's decided that a wall needed a new coat of paint. Or she's gambling."

He sniffed in derision. "Or perhaps she fell down a well. She does like to surprise. Do go look for her, I'm sure her shield could use aid in fishing her out of whatever hole she's tripped into."

Well Joffrey, I had been giving you the benefit of the doubt. But, after ordering me about like a servant in my own home, I can safely say that you fall on the "prick" side of the "prick/not a prick" line. I'd half a mind to say so too, but Father would not appreciate a scene. Also, Sansa was giving the prince that full-blown cow-eyes thing that she does sometimes. She can be downright _mean_ if you upset her or whatever it is she happens to be mooning at.

So I said nothing, simply standing up to go look for Alysanne, snatching the lone meatball off of Arya's plate on my way by. She spread her hands, accusing eyes and betrayed expression directed at me. I strode away, unmoved, popping the meatball in my mouth.

You're welcome, Sansa.

* * *

It was not a difficult search, as it turned out, a lone guardsman directing me to passage between the armory and the Guards Hall. Following it around past the godswood, I found Alysanne in the small courtyard between the glass garden and the old lichyard, watching a man in a dark cloak leave through the north gate. A large sack was slung over his shoulder, alongside a lute.

Another bard?

Movement to the left caught my eye. Turning, I saw Ser Guyard Morrigen relaxing from a sudden start, taking a hand from the dagger on his waist. The knight was still dressed as he'd been in the Hall, but had since strapped on a sword belt. A black cuirass was also worn over his finery, thinner than the plate he had rode in with. The torchlight he stood in revealed thin, crisscrossing lines, like the armor was enclosed by a cage of wire.

The southron knight looked to the princess, then glanced back to me. With a smirk on his face, he nodded towards his charge, a finger to his lips. Odd, but I took the invitation for what it was.

Alysanne was looking up at the night sky, standing still as I approached. Moonlight lit her, making the twisting white patterns of her dress stand out. It appeared as if she were a statue, gathering snowfall.

"Your Gr-" I began to call out.

 _ **"WUAAGHK!"**_ Alysanne shrieked, sounding less than regal as she jumped a good foot or so into the air.

 _So twitchy._

"What? Wh-, Robb?" She gasped as she spun around, skirts twirling about her. "But, where, Guy-?"

She quieted as she caught sight of her sworn shield, eyes narrowing.

"Point to you, Ser," the princess said with a mocking bow at her knight, who affected a look of disinterested innocence. I noted that she also removed her hand from a dagger as she did so, having armed herself as well. I glanced towards where the man had gone through the gate. _That_ was _just a bard, right?_

"And you, what's with the sneaking around in the dark?" Alysanne turned to me, brow arched. "Surely, a lady's business can't be all that interesting to the heir to the North?"

 _Perhaps it was_ , I thought, glancing to the sheathed blade on her hip.

"I'd thought better of my decision not to accompany you," I began carefully, meeting her eyes. "I _am_ supposed to accompany you this evening. Your brother requested that I locate you, as well."

"What, Joffrey?" the princess asked, confused. "Really?"

"He feared you would become lost, unfamiliar with Winterfell as you are," I answered, omitting the prince's japes.

"It is a common problem, true," Ser Guyard interjected seriously, ready with his own supply of mockery. "We've tried bells, but Her Grace just keeps removing them, no matter how many we tie to her."

"Yes, yes, you've developed a fine sense of wit, we're all very proud, no need to keep showing it off to every new person you meet," Alysanne said acidly. "As I've found myself with a surplus of escorts, your services are no longer required this night, Guyard. Feel free to return to the feast, or go do whatever it is you do on your own time."

The knight hesitated, giving me another long look.

"Shoo crow," the princess waived her hand impatiently. _I knew it was supposed to be a crow._ "Go peck at some corn, or something."

Shaking his head, Ser Guyard turned and headed back down the passage I came from. Inexplicably, I felt as though he was still smirking as he walked away. At me, for some reason.

"So, what was all that about?" I asked, turning back to the girl and gesturing to the gate. "Care to explain?"

"Nope!" Alysanne chirped.

"I would not have you feel the need to carry steel here," I frowned. "You are under guest right, and as such are due the protection of the Starks of Winterfell. If you are threatened-"

"No! _Gods_ , Robb, that's...no," she interrupted, shaking her head. "I've no worry about anyone breaking guest right under your roof, but neither did I feel a need to test the good will and sense of a stranger. I _am_ a very valuable person after all, so I've always favored having a bit more steel on hand than not. I did not mean it as a slight against your House. I feel perfectly safe here."

"That's...good then," I replied, taken aback at the girl's uncharacteristic earnestness.

"Yes," she agreed simply.

Our conversation withered at that, as I was uncertain about prying further and Alysanne had nothing else to say on the subject. The pause stretched out, becoming uncomfortable.

"Shall I escort you back to the feast then, if your business is concluded?" I offered, wishing to move on from the matter.

"Honestly, now that I'm out here, I think I'm all feasted out for the time being," she replied. "I enjoy a good feast as much as the next girl, but knowing Father, this'll only be the first of many while we're here. At this rate, I'm going to pop."

 _Fair enough._ "To the guest house, then?"

"Mmm, no, I feel a bit restless. Actually," Alysanne looked at me, considering. "Do you have any great need to return to the feast, yourself?"

"I suppose there's no rush. Have you something in mind?"

"Take me to the kennels," she demanded, eyes bright. "I want to see this wolf of yours that you've been talking up all night."

That was inaccurate, I spoke of many more things than the young direwolf. But, I did enjoy Grey Wind's company, and I further appreciated the princess's enthusiasm for visiting him.

"Very well, I shall take you there," I offered her my arm.

She stared blankly at the extended limb.

"Oh, um, right," she blinked and muttered, linking her elbow around mine.

So we walked, silence falling for a time. I did not mind the quiet, but she was stiff, as she had been when I'd first escorted her to the feast. A moody sort, perhaps. _Jon would probably get along well with her._

"Where'd you find that?" the princess suddenly asked, pointing to my belt. "I didn't think there'd be many flasks to be had, this far north."

"Your shield wished for me to have it, apparently" I answered, removing the bottle from my belt. "I would not reject it, but I think it to be too fine a gift to be given so abruptly."

"Eh, he hands the things out like candy. Not like he pays for 'em. They do make for good bribes, though."

"A bribe?" I gave the flask a dubious look. "What would he wish to bribe me for?"

"Who knows," Alysanne shrugged lightly. "I give him plenty enough tasks to carry out when he's not standing in my shadow, trying to look tough. He's found that nothing helps to grease the skids like a little libation. As for what he'd want from you, have you sampled it yet?"

"No?"

"Well then, bottom's up," she advised. "Go on, only one way to find out what it is."

With a shrug of my own, I opened the flask and took a deep swig of the contents-

 _Seven fuck._

-and started coughing my lungs out, immediately regretting my decision.

"Damn, Robb, take it easy," Alysanne chided, grabbing the flask before I dropped it. "Uncle Tyrion's stuff is a lot more potent than beer or wine. _Sip_ it, don't _chug_ it."

"Gods, that was, *cough* that was awful," I rasped. "That's meant to be a _bribe?_ More like poison, it is!"

"It can't be that bad," she disagreed, taking a drink from the bottle herself. Then she stuck her tongue out, her face twisted in disgust. "Blegh. Nope, it is. Forgot how much Guyard likes his pepper."

"So, what does it mean?"

"Hmm?"

"What did he intend to bribe me for?"

"Oh, I've no idea," the princess said cheerily. "For all I know, Guyard might have just been saying 'Hello', 'Welcome', or 'I think you should be more drunk' with the gesture. As I said, like candy. I was just angling to get my own sip."

"Well, it's a fine bottle at the very least," I groused, taking the proffered flask back and pouring it out on the ground. "Though I'd sooner fill it with one of Maester Luwin's cold remedies than that swill."

"So wasteful. Well, after were done at the kennels, we can go raid Tyrion's wagon. I'm sure we can refill it with something that will better suit your delicate palate. There's this one raspberry flavored spirit I enjoy, very sweet, it should be to your liking."

"I feel as though you are mocking me."

"I _am_ mocking you. How very perceptive," she nodded at me approvingly. "Well done."

"For...what? Not enjoying a liquefied kick to the throat? You liked it little better than I."

"True, but I'm a girl, I'm allowed to have a sweet tooth," Alysanne explained. "Enjoying the harshest concoctions to come out of my Uncle's twisted little mind is a mark of great manliness."

"You southrons are a queer lot."

"Says the boy that can't handle his pepper."

"Do you trade such abuse with everyone?" I asked. "Or are your escorts only so fortunate?"

"Just the ones I like," Alysanne replied. "No trading with the ones I don't care for. I only offer very one-sided transactions to those unfortunate souls."

"How fortunate I am to know that you like me, Your Grace," I drawled. "Truly, I feel blessed."

After that, the princess went quiet once more. _Was it something I said?_ I glanced at her as we continued on our way. She appeared to be having another bout of bashfulness. Judging by her color, her fever had returned as well.

I stood by my assessment: the south was a queer place, and it's people even stranger.

"So, do you sing?" I tried, attempting to reclaim the previous light mood.

Alysanne turned to me, confused.

"You've a fondness for singers, so I had wondered if you'd any talent yourself."

"Um, yes," she confirmed, uncertainly. "I've some talent."

"I admit, I had never before heard many of the songs that your friend played. Might she have taught you a few?"

A snort ripped from the princess's nose, loud and abrupt. Her eyes went wide and she put a hand to her face, but she could hardly stifle her own ensuing laughter.

"I'm _*pfft!*_ sorry, Robb, _*hehe!*_ I'm not sure what's _*heh!*_ come over me! _*haha!*_ "

 _So fucking weird._

"But, yes, I _*snerk!_ * do, ah, I have picked up a tune or two over the years, yes," she continued, getting her fit under control. "Would you like to hear one?"

"...sure." I began warily, wondering if I'd seriously misstepped. "It's still something of a walk to the kennels, a song should pass the time well."

"Mmm, a moment please," she said, looking up to the night sky with an amused smile.

Alysanne took some time to master her mirth, but soon enough, she answered my request.  
 _  
The last, that ever she saw him  
Carried away, by a moonlight shadow  
He passed on worried and warning  
Carried away, by a moonlight shadow_

It was unusual, quite unlike the familiar songs I'd heard time and again before. Yet it was not unpleasant.

The tall, odd girl continued singing all the way to the kennels, the wolves howling their own song in reply as we arrived.


	9. The Wolves of Winter: She-Wolves

A Proper Lady Wolf

(Sansa Stark)

 _'Cause I, want, it, thaaaaaaaat waaaay~_

I clapped my hands in joy as the three women finished their song. The other ladies in the sewing room likewise applauded and made noises of admiration. Naturally, my sister just grunted, not even looking up from her work.

Leave it to Arya to be sour in the face of anything nice.

So annoying.

Surprisingly, one of the singers appeared to share my sister's mind, directing a glare at her companion.

"Must you?" Alysanne asked crossly.

"No one forced you to sing along, Your Grace," the Lady of Songbird Hall replied, delicately shrugging a narrow shoulder. "Though it'd be quite tragic if you declined; we harmonize so well together."

"It's true," I added. "It was a wonderful performance, Your Grace, I'm honored have heard it."

It was such a beautiful song. Vague, perhaps, but very pretty. And I swear by the Seven, Arya, if the princess catches you making that face and you ruin everything, _I am going to-_

"You're too kind, Sansa, and please, feel free to call me by name. But I must admit I had no choice in the matter. This one," Alysanne scoffed, jerking her head at Lynesse. "Well knows that I'm helpless to resist whenever she pulls out that song. And somehow she's already gotten poor Ros trained as well. Where did you even find the time for that, Lyn?"

"Lynesse taught me several of her works while you were otherwise occupied on the journey north," explained the Frey maiden, before her brow furrowed in thought. "Though I did only hear that particular tune but once before. It just stuck to my mind just so easily. It would be hard _not_ to recall it."

"You see!" Alysanne exclaimed, waving a hand at Lady Roslin. "That song is far too powerful. Resistance is futile, none can escape its siren call."

"It's just a song, Aly," Princess Myrcella spoke up from where Septa Mordane was instructing her and little Beth Cassel. "You can just _not_ sing if you don't want to."

"Nope, I am completely and utterly incapable."

"I think we can all agree with you on that," Lady Songbird said with a pleasant smile as Alysanne's glare found her once more. "Far be it from any of us to contradict royalty, after all."

The princess's glare intensified.

The Songbird's smile did not falter.

Alysanne huffed and turned back to her stitching, muttering. Something about the back streets being a mistake? I couldn't make sense of it.

As the conversation lulled I shot a quelling look at Jeyne, whose lips twitched dangerously. "I don't care if everyone can hear Myrcella's muffled laughter, we are not going to make fun of my Joff's sister!" -is what I tried to say with my expression.

(A lady must be subtle.)

It would not do to have Alysanne telling tales to my future husband or worse, the Queen, that could paint me in a bad light. Thankfully, Arya was still too busy sulking to cause any trouble of her own. A few giggles wouldn't destroy all my precious hopes, true, but why needlessly antagonize one that was so close to my beloved?

Even if she did walk right into that one.

"Is that your the sigil of your House?" I asked Lady Roslin. I recognized the twin towers of House Frey that she was embroidering, of course, but asking the obvious was sometimes necessary to reinvigorate a fading conversation. As Mother was not here with us, it fell to me to draw attention away from Alysanne's grumbling, as a good host should.

(A lady must be diligent in her duties.)

"Ah, yes, it is," Roslin replied, her large brown eyes swiveling towards me. "I suppose the ornamentation will go to waste, but finishing the apron was quick work. It doesn't need it, but there's no harm in prettying it up either."

"Your work is very fine," I admired as she held up the garment. The nearly-finished blue towers were almost as neatly done as anything I could make. "An apron, you say? Is it a gift for one of your maids, perhaps?"

"I've no servants of my own," Roslin shook her head as she answered. "No, the apron is for myself; I was told to prepare one so that I could continue my lessons with Maester Qyburn."

"What lessons would those be?" I asked, frowning in curiosity. _Surely her maester isn't going to give her lessons in the kitchens?_

Roslin laughed lightly when I voiced that thought. "No no, of course not, that would be a misuse of his time. The good maester has been teaching me the skill of healing, how to care for the sick and to tend to injuries. Once I've finished with this, Maester Qyburn said that I may begin practical lessons."

I had no ready response to that; I'd small knowledge of the healing arts. A memory of Maester Luwin and a particularly foul tincture meant to remedy a cold came to mind. Not much to go on there, I'd not been as old as Bran at the time.

And what did she mean by "practical lessons"?

I struggled for a reply that wouldn't make me look stupid.

(A lady must not be stupid, Arya.)

"He's not a maester, you know."

Fortunately, Alysanne was there to take the attention from me.

The Frey tilted her head in question at the princess. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Qyburn is not a maester. He was, once, but he left the order some time ago to continue his studies in Essos."

"O-oh. Oh! But I thought, his chains, he-"

"A chain of actual metal is the mark of an official maester of the Citadel. Silver threads don't count," Alysanne explained. "It is, as I understand it, his way of thumbing his nose at Archmaester Ebrose, who wears the silver mask for expertise in healing, and was involved with his leaving his old collar behind. An archmaester's mask is worth seven links of the same kind on a maester's chain. Qyburn thinks that there's no good reason to stop at seven."

 _Silver threads...?_ Ah! She must mean the man that I saw speaking with Jeyne's father. He was a tall man with warm eyes and grey hair and looked to be of an age with Maester Luwin, but the most striking thing about him had been the dark velvet robes he'd worn. Looping across his clothes, over the shoulders and across the chest and down the sleeves, had been line after line of silver.

Like thin chains. How clever!

An odd expression had settled onto the princess's face as Roslin quietly considered her words.

"So...you've been spending time with Qyburn?" Alysanne offered, uncertain.

"Oh, yes! I've spoken with Mae-, er, Qyburn many times on our way to Winterfell," Roslin replied happily. "I can't believe he's not actually a maester; he's so very knowledgeable, more so than even old Maester Brenett back home, and he presents his lessons most skillfully, far better than any dusty tome."

"Yes, chain or no, none can deny his ability," Alysanne agreed. "I'd have not sought him out otherwise. Though I'm sorry to say I was unaware of your interest in healthcare."

"It is a recent interest," the girl admitted. "In truth, I'd given no thought to the subject before, but then Qyburn complimented me on my needlework, one thing led to another, and before I knew it, he was teaching me alongside his other acolytes."

 _What did needlework have to do with tending to the sick?_

I'd no idea.

(A lady must not appear ignorant.)

Fortunately, neither did Jeyne, blurting out that very question herself, then flushing as everyone's attention swung towards her. _Thank you for asking so that I did not have to,_ I thought with a kind smile. _Your sacrifice shall be remembered, my friend._

Then Roslin explained how this Not-Maester Qyburn had taught her of how wounds may be mended and flesh may be sewn. I found it a struggle to keep a smile fixed to my face as she went on. It was why she needed the apron, you see. She would need something to keep her dress clean when Qyburn permitted her to start sewing injuries together with her own hands. My smile finally guttered and died as I pictured the little Frey maid taking a needle to _people_ in the same way as she tended to the cloth in her hands.

Or perhaps it was due to the uncomfortable enthusiasm with which she spoke?

And _of course_ Arya would finally find interest in such a horrible topic.

At least she was no longer moping.

"I see," Alysanne said faintly, the princess's eyebrows having rose nearly to her hairline by the end of Roslin's explanation. "Well, um, learning new things should always be encouraged. Nothing wrong with a noble lady, such as yourself, taking a strong interest in the healing arts."

 _I believe we'll have to agree to disagree, Your Grace._

"And given that interest, having such a masterful teacher available to you could be seen as serendipitous," she continued. "He is the best at what he does. Including needlework; he sewed all those tiny little links on his robes himself. You're also not the first highborn to learn from him, so you'll be in good company as you continue your studies with Qyburn."

 _Really? I hadn't heard about any other noble-_

"Just never take any candy from him, alright?"

 _Wait, what?_

"Seriously. _Never_."

As I silently worked through the implications of all I'd just heard, my sister decided to speak up.

"You ought to take lessons with Qyburn too, Sansa," Arya suggested with delight, then turned to Roslin. "She's so very good with needles and threads, you know. Everyone says so. It'd be awful for her to waste her talent on just dresses."

I almost gaped at my sister's deviousness. On the one hand, I was pleased by the compliment because yes, I _was_ very good with needles and threads. On the other hand, this is the first time she's ever said anything nice to me about it, and she uses it to trap me!

 _How am I to answer that, Arya?!_ I scream in my head. _I want no part of Roslin's ghoulish studies!_

(A lady must have appropriate interests!)

And Roslin had seemed so nice! The very picture of a perfect southern lady. Irrationally, I wondered if all southerners were like that, a pleasant face and fine dress masking some abnormal hobby.

 _No, that's foolish, Mother would have warned me were that true._

...though she _has_ spoken unkindly of the Freys of the Crossing before. In fact, I could not recall her ever saying anything nice about that House. Perhaps the unpleasantness was confined to the Twins? That would explain things. The rest of the southerners appeared normal enough. Like Joffrey.

"That's really not a bad idea," Alysanne commented, to my despair. _I will remember this treachery, Arya!_ "The more people in the Kingdoms capable of tending the injured, the better, I'd say."

"There would be less injuries to go around if some people would stop playing in the mud so often," Lynesse said sweetly, to no one in particular, saving me from replying.

"And there will be more injuries to go around if some people don't stop slinging mud so often," Alysanne replied, her voice dripping with sugar, then dismissing the Songbird. "But seriously, Sansa, if you've the slightest interest at all, I'd encourage you to look into it. The realm is at peace now, but that doesn't mean it always will be. Our fathers _did_ fight two wars in the last fifteen years.

"Even learning basic knowledge could save a life, someday" the princess continued. Then a mischievous grin stretched across her face. "Perhaps someday a wounded knight may awaken to see you tending him, rather than a chained grey beard, and the sight alone would give him the will to live."

I chuckled along with the others even as my face flushed. It was a fine thought; a gallant knight is returned to his castle after felling his foes, armor rent with wounds sustained in defense of the weak. I would tend to him then, cleansing his face with a wet cloth, brushing aside golden locks. He would awaken, the first and only thing his emerald eyes would see upon opening would be me...

Yes, that's a _very_ fine thought.

It could not be too hard to learn just the basics, could it? So long as there's not _too_ much blood involved.

 _Or stitching,_ my mind shivered.

"Then, were you also instructed by Qyburn, Alysanne?" Roslin asked. "Since you've never attended any of the lessons, I had thought...?"

"We've discussed theory and such, but my interest leans more towards sanitation than surgery. Though I am familiar with first aid, yes," Alysanne confirmed. "As it is, even if I shared your passion, Ros, I'd not go far. I'm all thumbs at needlecraft."

"Oh, but your dress is so lovely, Alysanne!" I jumped into the conversation, back on familiar ground. "You are being modest, surely; that embroidery could not be crafted without a skilled hand."

 _Not that I'm implying you should go about sticking needles into anyone like the Frey obviously wants to._

But it really was a nice dress.

(A lady must be sincere.)

"I appreciate the sentiment, but it would be disingenuous for me to accept, Sansa. Though I will pass along the appreciation to the Dyer's Guild. Here, take a look."

I peered closely at the sleeved arm held up for my inspection. Blue and white flowers peppered the garment, all connected by golden stems that looped around her silk-clad forearm. It was exquisitely detailed; it would take a single person untold hours to create such embellishments. However...

"There are no stitches," I noted with wonder. "How in the world was this made?"

"It was printed," Alysanne answered, enjoying my fascination. "Well, stamped, I believe that's the correct term. A block of wood is carved into the desired design, dipped into colored ink, then pressed into a piece of fabric, just like a big stamp. If more than one color is called for, it just takes more stamps."

"Wish I had a stamp," Arya murmured, eyeing the unfortunate looking winter roses on her embroidery hoop.

I kept my lips from twisting at the envy I felt, even as my mind turned over how I might acquire a stamped dress of my own.

Though the thought of Arya outstripping my talents with an armful of colored blocks did prick at my pride fiercely.

(A lady must never cheat, Arya!)

"I'd prefer to simply be rich enough to just buy it all outright, but I can emphasize, Arya," my sister jerked at having been overheard. "As you can see, I'm pretty bad at this myself."

The princess held up what she'd been working on as we'd chatted with one another; lengths of red and yellow ribbons were crudely joined together with ugly knots and even uglier stitches of thick black thread.

 _Oh dear, she is_ really _bad at this_ , I thought, embarrassed for her. _What had she even been trying to make? I'd seen turkeys sewn up more prettily than that. Even_ Arya _can do better than that._

My sister made a choked noise, likely realizing the same thing.

"Yeah, I know it's sh-" Alysanne paused, eyes snapping to Myrcella, the younger princess having looked up from her own work with an expectant expression. "-abby. It's actually kind of remarkable given all the hours of practice I've put in. Really, give me a quill or brush and I'm just dandy, but the sewing room is my Ashford."

"It's alright Aly, you're good at lots of other things!" consoled Myrcella, to the giggles of little Beth.

Septa Mordane's expression said that it was most certainly _not_ alright to be that poor with needle, but she held her tongue nonetheless.

"That I am, 'Cella. And for the things I'm not good at, there are others that can cover my deficiencies. I'm blessed to be surrounded by such talented friends."

 _It's good to be recognized for one's abilities,_ I thought as my chest swelled with pride at Alysanne's praise. _And my beloved's sister even named me friend!_

"That said, I think I've made enough of these. I grow weary of needles, or at least at being outdone by all of you for the day. Would any of you care to join me for a change of scenery?"

"Done!" Arya announced immediately, dropping her hoop. Septa Mordane tried to protest, but the princesses were both already packing up their sewing baskets. At Jeyne's questioning look, I smiled in anticipation and moved to put away my things. We'd normally have another hour or more before the Mordane would release us, but...

(A lady must not reject a royal invitation!)

* * *

(I don't know what this is, but I don't think a lady should be doing it.)

"One more time. Watch closely and do as I do."

She turned away from us and stepped up to the line drawn in the snow.

"Relax your body and stand up straight."

She held up a knife.

"Hold the blade in your strong hand, pinched between your thumb and forefinger. If it is too heavy, add your middle and even your ring finger to hold it securely."

She stretched her arm forward.

"Extend your arm towards the target, like so."

She drew her arm up to the side of her head.

"Bending at your wrist and elbow, bring the blade back and up to your ear. Then, as hard as you can, extend your arm back towards the target and..."

Her arm whipped forward, the blade flying forward as she let it slip from her fingers.

"Release!"

The knife spun end over end through the air, red and yellow tassels trailing after as it raced towards it's destination-

 _thud._

-where it bounced off the side of the archery target, then fell and landed on the ground with a sad little noise.

Just like the last three.

"I thought you said you were good at this," Lynesse said bluntly.

" _Noooo_ , I said that I _knew_ how to do this," Alysanne corrected. "I merely _implied_ that I was good at this. Now come on, you all give it a try."

"Could we...not?" Jeyne asked weakly. "I don't think I'd be any good at this anyways. And Septa Mordane-"

"Isn't going to mind you participating in an idle amusement for an afternoon," Alysanne reassured, gesturing at the pinch-faced septa with yet another knife, but not actually turning to look at her. "And it's no matter to me whether you're good or not. I mean, just look at my sister."

Princess Myrcella, armed with a tiny blade, had her face screwed up in concentration as she carefully attempted to copy her elder sibling's movements. Her arm shot forward, and the tasseled knife-

 _pfft._

-sailed straight into the snow less than a pace from her, setting off a round of light chuckles that young girl joined in herself.

"You see? She's as skilled at this as I am at cross-stitch, and she's enjoying herself," Alysanne continued, turning back to Jeyne. "If it helps, just think of it as a big, unwieldy needle. Who knows? You might even have a hidden talent at this game."

With no dignified exit available to her, Jeyne swallowed and stepped up to the line next to Myrcella. Abruptly, her arm went up then back down, the kitchen knife she'd been holding flying up, up, into the air-

 _snkt._

-then landing a scant inch ahead of Myrcella's own blade. Jeyne reddened at the ensuing giggles, but graciously accepted Myrcella's compliments on surpassing her own efforts, while Lynesse companionably patted her on the back.

"Then again, not everyone can be a prodigy," Alysanne conceded, aiming a rueful smile at me.

"Yeah, Sansa! Not everyone can be me!" Arya _chirped_ , practically skipping past us to pluck another knife from Ser Guyard's hand. That blade soon joined the small _forest_ of steel protruding from her target, each closer to the center mark than the last.

"Look at that girl go," Alysanne said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Are you've sure she's never done this before?"

 _I don't keep track of everything the little hellion gets up to!_ I wanted to snap. _I certainly hadn't heard any complaints of a rash of knifes getting stuck all over the place, or whatever other nonsense that'd come from Arya taking up a new hobby._

"Why are we doing this?" I asked instead, trusting in courtesy. Then my eyes widened as I realized that still sounded rude. "Forgive me, Your Gr-, *ahem*, I mean to say, _Alysanne_ , is this a common amusement in the south?"

"Hmm? Oh, no, I suppose it's not. Though I've heard it's a popular way for encamped soldiers to pass time. No, a while ago I got the idea that a throwing weapon might be a good fit for me,-" _What?_ "-but I thought that I should start small. I gathered up a collection of knives, made up some brightly colored tassels so they'd be easier for Guyard to retrieve-

"For Olyvar to retrieve."

"-for _Guyard_ to retrieve," Alysanne repeated, unabashed. "Then I would practice, and as my skill grew, I would move up in size. I only just got done sewing up the ribbons, and I thought it would be a good excuse to get out of the sewing room. Thank you for allowing us this diversion, Septa."

"Your Grace, I-" Mordane began, only to be interrupted by a shout of glee from Arya.

"I did it! I hit the center!"

"Well done, Arya! High five?"

"A what?"

"High five. When you achieve some triumph, you raise your open palm up, like so, then slap it against the palm of your friends. People do it all the time in the Summer Isles to express approval and praise."

Accepting the explanation, Arya excitedly slapped her hand against the princess's before grabbing up another blade and headed back down the throwing line.

"She keeps that up and I'll hire her as a ringer. Next time Tyrion drags out the dart board, I'll be swimming in cash. Arya's going to _destroy_ Jasper."

"I'd be more worried about Jenny," warned Lynesse.

"I'm always worried about Jenny," Alysanne returned with a frown. "That lady's not right."

 _Who's Jenny?_

"She's just quiet, is all," Roslin defended, carefully making a selection from the blades fanned out in her brother's hands.

"Please tell me you're not hanging out with Jenny too," Alysanne spoke quickly, looking alarmed.

"Oh, but she's been so helpful with my anatomy lessons!"

 _Never mind, I no longer wish to know._

"Perhaps there is something else you would like to do, Alysanne?" I spoke up, doing my best to sound like Mother and attempt to reign in this madness. "You said you'd grown weary, didn't you? We could retire to our rooms to for a time; Arya and I could show you the keep. Then, we might join you in a more suitable activity?"

Alysanne pursed her lips in response. Inside, I winced at the sight. Arya wouldn't be convinced by such cajoling, and she was only nine. Were it Myrcella acting this way, I'd have better chances, but the elder princess just looks annoyed.

"I find 'suitable' usually boils down to sewing, singing, dancing and gossiping, or some variation thereon. Joffrey's the dancer of the family-" _Interesting._ "-and we've done a fair amount of the others already today. This," Alysanne gestured broadly with the blade pinched between her fingers, "is something different. I know it's outside of your comfort zone, Sansa, but it'll be memorable for the novelty value alone. There's no harm in trying something new every now and then."

Then her blade fell to the ground as she fumbled it.

"Shit."

 _"Alysanne!"_ I found myself snapping in time with Septa Mordane, Jeyne, and Myrcella, though rather than be horrified by her language, the littler princess was excitedly pointing at the bigger with her own blade.

And I would swear that Ser Guyard made a wordless noise of amused satisfaction at his lady's curse, but his face was impassive when I turned to glance at him. Or, as impassive as it could be with just a single eyebrow. _What an odd fashion._

"Yes, yes, I'll put a stag in the jar," Alysanne muttered around the bleeding thumb held to her lips. "Form a line if you're all going to jump down my throat about it."

"When the jar is filled, she has to buy me a pony," Myrcella explained unhelpfully, if brightly. "It's nearly full!"

"That's kind of her," Lynesse said pleasantly, clearly inured to the antics of the princesses.

"This will be my third pony," Myrcella elaborated. "Father says that counts as a herd!"

Then her blade fell to the ground as she fumbled it.

"Shit."

 _"Myrcella!"_ Alysanne shouted, appalled.

"You can keep the stag if you don't tell Mother," Myrcella offered, sucking on her own nicked thumb.

"Darn right I'm keeping the stag," Alysanne huffed. "And whether Mother hears about this depends on how deep that is. Roslin, if you could...?"

"Of course."

 _"YES!"_ Arya's sudden shout drew all our eyes to her. "Center again! Look, it's sticking right out of the first one!"

"Unbelievable," Alysanne said, narrowing her eyes at the unlikely and admittedly impressive sight of a second blade sticking out of the handle of the first. The princess frowned down at the blade she's fumbled earlier, while Arya grabbed Lynesse's arm and slapped her hand against hers. "Right then, forget this. Ros?"

"Less than a pinprick, it's already stopped bleeding."

"Good. I'll be back in a bit, just need to go fetch something. Lyn, make sure no one puts their eye out. Ros, you're in charge if they do. Sansa, try to have some fun. Guyard, you and Olyvar keep standing there, you're both doing great."

"You should not go without-" began the knight.

"Thank you Guyard!" Alysanne called over her shoulder, already walking away.

The Morrigen knight inhaled deeply and made to shout before visibly stopping himself. Instead, he turned his head from his departing charge and exhaled noisily through his nose, looking down to the collection of blades held in his gauntlets.

"It's always going to be like this, isn't it?" The similarly burdened Frey squire asked his master, as if coming to some profound realization.

The knight gave his squire a thin smile in response, but said nothing.

 _Try to have some fun, she says,_ I thought as my face heated. _But I_ was _having fun! This is not how things are supposed to go. Why must she be so willful? A lady, a princess even more so, is supposed to be delicate and gentle and not...not_ that!

But there _had_ been rumors about the King's eldest daughter. Most of them I'd heard from Theon's mouth. Naturally, Theon was interested in any kind of story that involved girls. I shuddered at some of the things I'd heard him tell Robb before.

He said that he'd heard that the daughter of Robert Baratheon was taller than the Greatjon and wider than Lord Manderly. Or that she'd been struck in the head, loosing all her teeth and unable to speak naught but nonsense. Or that she had a face like Mikken's anvil. Sometimes it was all those things, or she was a bear in a dress, or actually a bearded boy that wore a wig, or that she was just so ugly that no one knew she was a girl until her chest started to grow. 'Robert-With-Teats', it was even said.

I'd given such rumors little thought beyond a horrified chuckle, as they did come from Theon, and so were suspect.

Yet near all the stories agreed that the girl was mannish in appearance, which meant there may have been some truth to them. So I was pleased to see that the princess looked normal enough when the King's party arrived. Alysanne's look favored the King like Arya's favored Father, though she was fortunate to have inherited a long frame rather than a long face. The princess was not the radiant beauty the Queen was, but then Cersei Lannister was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. It wouldn't be fair to compare anyone to her.

Still, Alysanne had been well matched with Robb at the welcoming feast, him in his best grey wool and she in her sapphires and dark silks (another stamped dress I think, I have to ask Father for one of my own), both trimmed in white. Not as well as myself and Joffrey, of course, with his red velvet and golden accents and my best blue dress and expertly styled hair. But they'd made a regal enough pair, though the difference in height was unfortunate.

Today had been the first that I'd spoken at any length with the princess, as my Prince had commanded near all of my attention at the feast. Her demeanor was pleasant, as was that of her ladies, and it was a treat to hear their southern songs. I'd not cared much for the princess's sense of humor, however; Alysanne enjoyed acting the fool far too much. To her credit, she did take to being teased with aplomb. Her own japes in return were gentle enough, spreading her attentions so that no one was humiliated.

 _But this..._ I grimaced down at the blade held gingerly in my hand. When the princess had led us outside, I thought she'd want to do something decent, perhaps invite us to sit with the Queen, or ask to learn the songs of the North. At the very least I'd thought we'd go watch Joffrey practice swords with Robb and Theon. Not toss around a pile of knives like a pack of wildlings!

Then she just dismissed my protests! Had dismissed everyone's, in fact. The regard the older girl gave Septa Mordane was little enough to make Arya look respectful. Even her own sworn shield was subject to the same treatment, to my bafflement. The girl was not without kindness, but she was all too quick to discard courtesy and just walk all over whoever she pleased, seemingly whenever she deemed it convenient!

"Don't be too upset with Aly, Lady Sansa," Lady Songbird said gently, pulling me from my brooding thoughts. "She means well, but is too used to bossing people around. Her Grace sometimes forgets how act with people who are not also her subordinates, so she can come off as forceful and clumsy."

"So, it's unintentional, then?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Lynesse answered with a faint grin. "She's not malicious, at the least. My lady appears to like you well enough. She'll most like try to find some way to compensate you later for your discomfort over all of this."

 _She_ did _call me her friend,_ I recalled. _And I do want Joffrey's family to like me. If she feels poorly for upsetting me, I could ask her to-_

"With that said, you should give that a try," the Songbird continued, pointing to the knife in my hand. "While she doesn't care for how skilled you are, Aly has strong opinions about _trying_. She may be put out if you don't attempt even a single throw."

Glumly, I looked over to Arya, who was busily trying to land a third blade on the center of her target. I felt, incredibly, a twinge of jealousy at the sight. I swiftly tamped it down. _Why should I care that Arya makes it look effortless? I don't even want to do this._

"Just one little toss," Lynesse wheedled. "Then you can truly say you've competed in invitation-only, _royal invitation_ at that, contest of steel and skill against your peers. The future tales you could spin of this day would alone be worth the effort, wouldn't you say?"

At her prodding, I finally stepped up to the line. I gazed at my target for a long moment, then stretched my arm out. Then I very, very carefully drew it back level with my ear, steel held tightly in a clammy grip.

Then I squeezed my eyes shut and threw it as hard as I could.

...

I waited a moment in silence before I cracked open an eyelid.

My target remained unmarred.

I glanced down.

The knife sat on the ground a short distance from me, its crude tassel lying limply behind it, looking as though it had been dropped there by a passerby.

 _Well, that's embarrassing,_ I thought morosely, eyes roving over all the other blades littering the ground. _At least I got further than Jeyne._

"Good effort, Sansa!" I jolted at the shout. "But it looks like Arya's going to carry the day, here. A fair division of skills, I think, your needles to her knives."

Alysanne had returned, a grin on her face as she tromped over, one hand gripping her skirts and the other a hammer. It was a stout thing, made of dark iron with leather wrappings around a short handle, topped by a rounded head opposite a wicked spike. It looked heavy.

 _That's not the King's hammer, is it?_ I thought at the sight. _She's not planning on throwing that, is she?_

Evidently so, as the girl planted her boots on the line, facing her target. Holding up the ugly thing with a single hand, she looked at the target and the hammer, back and forth, then adjusted her grip so that the spike faced forward. The princess glanced behind herself for a moment, then took a step forward and swung the hammer down.

As it passed by her leg, her arm blurred and the hammer swung up and over her head, then she let it loose. It spun end over end through the air, racing towards its destination, and-

 _WH-CRACK._

-the spike sank into the packed straw mat, two finger-widths below the center. The wooden frame holding up the target lifted back from the force of the blow and creaked in distress. The hammer hung there for a moment, the round hammerhead proudly displaying a simple smiling face, done in scuffed, black and yellow paint, then the target fell backwards in a heap.

"That's what I get for overthinking things!" Alysanne crowed. "Could have skipped mangling all that ribbon!"

 _Theon had gotten it mixed up,_ I thought as the boisterous princess clapped me on the shoulder. _It's not her_ looks _that are mannish, it's how she_ acts! _For Seven's sakes, she acts more like my_ sister _than a-_

...

 _Oh Gods._

 _She's not 'Robert-With-Teats',_ I thought with profound annoyance as Alysanne slapped her hand against my sister's proffered palm. _She's 'Arya-On-Stilts'!_

* * *

The Den Mother

(Catelyn Stark)

Were the sept not empty, I would not have been able to hear the whispers. As it was, I could not pick out the words, but the cadence and her location suggested one of the Maiden's hymns. I waited for the girl to finish her prayers before clearing my throat. Turning at the noise, her dark brows rose as she caught sight of me.

"Lady Stark," the princess greeted, standing quickly and dipping into a curtsy. "You surprised me."

"One need only bow before the gods in their house, child. Please, sit," I returned, gesturing to the bench she had vacated. "I was also surprised, few in the King's party have deigned to visit our sept. I fear it may be too humble a place for those accustomed to Baelor's splendor."

"Perhaps they've grown used to saying their prayers to the open air? We've encountered few septs this side of the Neck," Alysanne suggested, reclaiming her seat. "And most here do not frequent the Great Sept, so far as I know. The Red Keep'a sept _is_ admittedly impressive, however. Not to say this place is without charm; this is the first sept I've seen with actual _seats_."

"The floor can grow quite cold, I've found," I wryly replied, sitting myself beside the princess. "I've faith that the Seven will forgive me this small comfort."

 _I'd intended to speak with her mother,_ I debated. _Though I could chance talking to the girl directly. We are alone here, with only the girl's green knight at watch outside the doors. No one likes to be corrected, but anyone would prefer a private word to including their own mother in their embarrassment. Yes, I shall speak plainly and quickly, then the matter will be left behind us._

"I would speak with you of how you conduct yourself with my children."

"Uh," the girl replied dumbly.

"As a guest under our roof, there are certain rights I must afford you under all the laws of gods and men."

"I, ah-"

"You are also a child of our King, and so are granted greater leeway than those of lower birth would enjoy."

"I don't-"

"In turn, _you_ must show your hosts due respect, and what you've been doing is-"

"W-we were only talking, I swear!" Alysanne interrupted, reeling back and waving her hands in protest. "I, um, he wanted to show me the godswood, is all!"

"The godswo-?" I halted, confused by her words and her coloring face. "What are you talking about?"

She stilled, then asked cautiously, "...what are _you_ talking about?"

" _I_ am speaking of the excursion to the archery range you took the other day," I replied carefully, raising a brow in silent question. "An irate septa filled my ear with how her sewing lesson became a throwing lesson."

"Ah. Yes. _That_. Well," Alysanne cleared her throat and relaxed some, pointedly _not_ clarifying what _she'd_ thought I'd referred to. "I didn't think she'd be so put out as to bother you about it."

"I also heard a fair amount from Sansa."

"Oh. I know Sansa didn't care for the game, but I thought she'd calmed down by the end," the girl lips twitched downward as she looked away. "Is she still so upset?"

"No, but I must ask that you not take either of my girls away from their lessons again," I said firmly. In truth, Sansa seemed more upset with Arya for a reason she could not find words for. Speaking of: "Nor shall you make them any more gifts."

"I wouldn't really call it a _gift_ ," the princess hedged. "Arya's performance deserved an award."

Then she started, her braid swinging as she turned to me. "Wait, how did...?"

"My daughter's excitement briefly overwhelmed her good sense," I dryly answered. "She was very proud to show off her new blade."

 _Had she known about the little knife, Mordane would have been even more shrill in her report,_ I thought ruefully as the princess winced. _Sometimes the septa would get herself so worked up it felt like_ I _was the one being scolded. Fortunately for all, the gift was given discreetly enough._

"So long as she keeps it hidden in her boot, I will ignore it's existence," I continued. Arya had traded a kiss on the cheek and a solemn oath to cease sneaking away from her lessons for that concession. It won't be a promise kept a week, I expect, but the peace will be nice however long it lasts. "But kindly restrain your generosity."

"I understand, my lady," Alysanne inclined her head, chastened. "I apologize for overstepping."

"Thank you," I said, quickly accepting the apology. I felt wary and discomforted at reprimanding a child not my own, even if her size made it easy to pretend her a woman grown. Doing so let me avoid navigating the Queen's cool haughtiness, if nothing else. That route would surely have had its own pitfalls. I was relieved that the girl accepted correction so amiably.

"And thank you for your efforts with Bran," I offered gently. Admonishment given, I did not want to risk any more bad feeling growing from this meeting. "Sadly, the thought of sawing off his own arm dissuades him just as little as any other gruesome tale he's been told."

"Did he ask you about trading his hand for a pick, too?" Alysanne barked an incredulous laugh. "He was far more comfortable with the idea than I expected. Knew I should have picked a different story; I'll have to think up something more graphic, next time."

 _Why so ready to offer another story?_ I suddenly wondered. _Her missteps aside, the friendship of a member of the royal family would be a boon for any of my children. It's only been a few days, and already she's shown a keen interest in so many of my children. Not unwelcome, but it is unusual._

Then, after I'd asked where she'd seen Bran climbing and the girl explaining that she hadn't, that instead _Robb_ had told her about my little boy's habits, the mystery greatly lessened in my mind.

 _No need to ask who'd shown her the godswood then,_ I mused, thoughtful. They had disappeared from the welcoming feast, but that was to see the wolf pups, Robb had said. Innocuous enough, but that I had not heard of further meetings until now was...well, there are some things that a boy doesn't wish to tell his mother. Either way, there would be no harm in speaking with the girl further.

"I'm terrified that one day Bran will slip and fall, but neither plea nor punishment will keep his feet on the ground. Too often, I find all I can do is pray for the Mother's protection, to ask that he be kept safe," I gestured to the carved, smiling face hanging to the Father's right, then nodded at the mask hung before us. "I likewise ask the Maiden to see to my daughters. When I was a girl myself, my prayers would most often be to her. Though I was a woman grown before I'd ever knelt before all of the Seven's faces."

I'd a fair guess at what the girl asked of the Maiden. But under each mask was lit a candle, dripping down onto the carved, rounded blocks that served as alters. I'd noted the oddity when I'd entered the sept. At this hour, Septon Chayle would be haunting his library, leaving any flames to burn out, so the princess must have lit them.

It had not been until the Rebellion, when I'd been wedded and bedded, with a child growing in me and a new husband fighting a war I could not know he would return from, that I'd prayed in earnest to each aspect. When better to beseech the entirety of the Seven Who Are One, than in those uncertain times? So I was curious as to why the girl did the same now.

Alysanne shrugged at the implied question. "Outside of the usual observances, I've no special need for most of the Seven. But when I make time for the gods, I pay my respects to each, all the same. Should I make my prayers to the Maiden and the Warrior, there's no reason not to also ask for justice and wisdom, that the broken be mended and my family be safeguarded. It's little enough to offer the rest a few more candles, some rote words and whispered songs from the _Star_."

"You've songs for the Stranger?" I questioned, astonished.

"No," answered the girl shortly, glancing at the mask that hung to her right, the only face for which not a single song was written in the pages of the _Seven Pointed Star_. "That one gets only a candle from me. Perhaps the light will be enough to keep it at bay; no sense invoking it without cause."

"Sensible," I approved. "Few keep the Stranger in their normal prayers for good reason. Though I cannot help but wonder at a princess of the realm seeking out the blessings of the Warrior."

"No need to seek out what one already has," the girl preened as she laced her fingers together and stretched out her arms above her head. "Though it never hurts to give thanks."

"It does not," I agreed, allowing her sidestep. "You do well to keep to the gods so diligently. Piety is a fine trait to possess, especially in the young."

"Piety comes easy if you can actually see the gods' favor at work," Alysanne said with strange smile. "In my uncle's sword arm, in my mother's beauty, there are even wispy remnants in my father's eyes; I see something more than merely mortal in those things. And if one can see such evidence of the gods, then it's only prudent to be respectful of them, I think."

"An interesting perspective," I respond neutrally. _Cheeky. Yet her words suggest a respect rooted in fear_. _A grandchild of Tywin Lannister would not be unfamiliar with such feelings. Her attitude could be either bravery or bravado, I know not which._ "Is that what you sought in the godswood then? Proof of my husband's gods at work?"

"I certainly found _something_ ," Alysanne answered. I'd sought to tease out some thought on my son with my questions, but instead of coloring cheeks, the girl's face set into a frown as her arms crossed. "Not that I doubted there was some power in the old gods' weirwoods. I just would've of liked to have seen a better sign."

"What did you see," I asked sharply. Too sharply, but that dreadful omen lurked in my thoughts, the she-wolf, dead with the broken antler lodged in her throat. Coldness coiled in my belly while my eyes played over the Baratheon stag emblazoned on Alysanne's coat. I forced calm that I did not feel into my words. "Signs from the gods should not be ignored, old or new.

"Just a crow," the girl replied with a touch of shock, eyes wide. "I threw a stick at it."

"Ah," was all I offered. A lesser person would not have restrained their temper, but I could not afford to snap at the princess over such foolishness. I looked away to compose myself.

 _The girl is not at fault for her words,_ I chastised myself. _She would not know that her words of gods and signs would prod on my lingering unease. Nor that's Ned's obstinance had only deepened it. My anxiety has grown so much that even a slight reminder robbed me of courtesy. Badly at that. It was plain to see in how the girl had recoiled._

"It was the direwolf, wasn't it?" I turned back at Alysanne's voice, my skin prickling. "Robb told me how he found the pups."

I did not trust myself to speak then, merely forcing polite interest on my face. I became still, stopping myself from shuddering as she struck at the heart of my fear, quieting that part of me that wanted nothing more than to shriek at the _pity_ in the girl's eyes.

"No one can know what it meant, not exactly," the princess said softly, slowly. "But don't forget, the stag died as well."

"That it did," I conceded, my voice coming clearly despite my turmoil. "It is a poor future the gods warn us of."

 _It was empathy then, not pity that she looks at me with_ , I thought rapidly. _Of course she would fear for her family. The stag's entrails were spilled by the direwolf just as surely as it impaled the wolf. A mirror to my own dread. Worse perhaps, she lacks even the comfort of the pups' survival. Could she be an ally then? Help me prevent the doom that would befall our Houses both if wolf and stag come to odds?_

"I agree," Alysanne nodded seriously. "Wolves don't do well in the south, true, though Lord Stark has proven the exception to the rule time and again. My Father needs him to be prove his exception once more. King's Landing will be dangerous, yes, but the Hand of the King has great power. He could reenact the Hour of the Wolf, if he willed it. So long as Lord Stark remembers to _use_ that power, the future we fear will not be written in stone.

"Father loves your husband like a brother," she continued her assurances. "More than his actual brothers, to be honest. So much so that I would call him Uncle Eddard, as I called Lord Arryn grandfather. I'd not hesitate to give any aid I could to ensure his health and success.

"Family _is_ the most important thing, after all. Wouldn't you agree," her lips curled upwards into a grin. "Auntie Catelyn?"

"I will gladly thank you for your aid, so long as you do not call me that again," I forced a light laugh and released a shudder. It was no surprise Alysanne knew of the King's intent, for all that none spoke it aloud. Anyone that thought to ask why Robert Baratheon would ride for Winterfell would be wise enough to divine the answer themselves. _Of course she assumes that Ned will be going south!_

 _'I will refuse him,'_ my Ned had told me. I'd argued with him half the night, had tried to make him see, yet still he would throw Robert's honors back in his face. The princess thought that I feared grief would be found in the capital, but the girl never considered that Ned might not leave Winterfell. _What surer way to set our Houses against one another than for my lordly husband to reject his King and dearest friend?_

 _No, Ned must accept, no matter how large a burden he sees the honor. But how to convince him?_ I pondered. Looking over the girl, I recalled the offer that Ned had spoken of. _Height aside, Alysanne was yet a child. Her offer of aid is worth little, goodly intended as it was. Still, aid could take many forms. Perhaps if I framed it to Ned as a debt? Service in repayment for an offer accepted?_

She was comely enough, with eyes a shade brighter than my own Tully blue. The strong features of the King, tempered by the Queen's softer contributions, filled her face. Thick dark hair was bundled in a single braid reaching halfway down her back. There was strength in her frame, more than my in own, certainly, which would grow further still, young as she was. The girl would have strong children in turn, and they would be plentiful.

 _It could work. Or, there were Sansa's dreams and pleas to consider. One or the other, and Ned would become Hand. There was no other way forward. I must make him see. One of my children's voices with my own will be enough to sway him. I know my daughter's mind, but not my son's, not for certain. I must speak with Robb._

 _Next Time: Pack Dynamics_


End file.
